


Always Halfway to Go

by halfabreath



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pining, descriptions of sports related injury, elderly OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11951460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: While at Samwell, Ransom gets a job at the Rec center teaching water aerobics. Generally his class is filled to the brim with old ladies and their husbands, so he’s shocked to arrive at class at the beginning of the semester and find Adam Birkholtz, ex-hockey player, who’s there to supplement his physical therapy with gentle cardio.Things only get more complicated from there.





	1. all at once a lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to several folks: omgpromptsplease for the original premise (summary is theirs as well), Quidhitch for betaing the first chapter, Pongpalace for betaing chapters 5+, and to each and every person who's dropped into my inbox to scream about these dum dums. 
> 
> Check out the tag at: http://halfabreath.tumblr.com/tagged/water-aerobics-au

Justin Oluransi is absolutely, completely, one thousand percent certain of his limits, and his current workplace conditions are exceeding them by a wide margin. He’ll know exactly what that margin is the second he gets back to the Haus, where a spreadsheet called “Self Care and Healthy Expectations” is waiting for him. He just has to get through work, a place that has utterly betrayed him.

When he’d applied for the position at the Samwell Recreation Center he thought it would be an easy gig that would boost his income, maybe help him tone his abs outside of his regular workouts. He’d signed up to teach little old ladies and other students looking for a different kind of work out. He can handle both of those things - enjoys them, even. But this, the sheer audacity of these circumstances, is about to give him an aneurysm, and he knows all the symptoms because of last night’s bio reading, thank you very much.

Adam Birkholtz, former Seattle Schooners defenseman and professional hockey player who suffered a career ending injury in the Stanley Cup Finals, is in his fucking pool.

He's absolutely ripped, even though Justin can only see his deltoids, trapezius, pectoralis major, and shit, even his serratus anterior are visible above the water. He’s still sporting his full playoff beard and stands at least a foot taller than the other people in the class, most of whom are gathered around him, trying to understand why someone several decades younger than them is about to take Gentle Water Aerobics with Justin (Seniors Welcome!).

It’s just - nothing about this is fair. Justin’s meeting one of his idols in a humid pool where he’s about to lead a workout that looks absolutely ridiculous on land. He doesn’t even understand why he’s here, but another peek from behind the lifeguard’s chair he’s hiding behind confirms that yes, that’s Adam Birkholtz nodding along to whatever Linda is saying. As Justin watches Linda reaches out and places her hand on Adam’s bicep, and the next thing Justin knows he’s standing by the side of the pool, clapping his hands to begin class and _get her off him._

An hour later, just after class ends, Justin’s congratulating Tabitha on her progress when he sees Adam carefully stepping out of the pool, clutching the metal railing with so much force that Justin can see the tension travel all the way from his forearm to his back. He lets himself have a second to think about what a nice back it is before hurrying over, worried that he might slip and fall before he gets to wherever he’s going. As he rounds the corner he sees the long, pink scar bisecting Adam’s knee, still fresh from surgery, but he tears his eyes away as he comes up to Adam’s side.

“Hey, bro. Need a spotter?” The words come out of his mouth, but Adam’s grim expression shifts into a small smile before the mortification of an awkward greeting can set in. Adam reaches out to take his shoulder and Justin definitely doesn’t stare at his bicep and chest before wrapping an arm around his back to steady him as he clears the last step out of the pool.

“Thanks, man.” Justin can feel the words vibrate through his broad chest and back, and he thinks he might just drop dead on the spot. “And, uh, thanks for starting class when you did. I thought Linda was going to bite me.” His voice is sheepish but he’s smiling, and Justin can’t help but laugh.

He can feel Adam relax as they walk slowly. “I had to, dude, because I should be thanking you for distracting her. I’m usually the one she flirts with before class.” He glances over at Adam’s face, hoping to see a smile there. The expression is pinched around the edges from the effort, but he’s smiling wide enough to show his teeth (which really isn’t that wide, Justin realizes).

“Can’t say I blame her.” The words would have sent Justin reeling if he wasn’t currently supporting the weight of the man who’d said them. He looks up at Adam in surprise, but the taller man is staring staunchly ahead, as if he can’t bear to see Justin’s face if he rejects him. Justin needs him to know that’s absolutely not going to be a problem.

“Me, either.” Adam looks over at him in surprise, the stoic expression melting away into a grin. It shouldn’t really be as attractive as it is – they’re pressed close together and they have to awkwardly crane their heads back to make eye contact, but before Justin knows it he’s smiling, too, and it takes a moment before they both realize they’ve stopped walking because neither of them is paying attention anymore. Adam laughs, ducking his head, and it’s so, so distracting because then their eyes are on the same plane so when he glances over Justin is completely lost in the cerulean blue of his eyes.

Luckily, Adam speaks again before Justin can articulate the dumb, cliché thoughts that seem to have completely overridden his ability to function like a normal human. “I’ll have to flirt with someone else before class next week so Linda doesn’t get the wrong idea.” Adam says, and Justin’s first thought shouldn’t be _Please don’t flirt with anyone other than me ever._ Before he realizes it’s a joke. “Know anyone willing to help me out?”

He’s got to play it cool, because Adam cannot know what he’s thinking (what he’s been thinking for the past hour, actually) so Justin shrugs the shoulder that’s not supporting Adam’s weight. “Diane, probably. I’d help but I only flirt after class.” He explains, fighting to keep the unaffected expression on his face when Adam chuckles, deep and rich and too fucking close for comfort.

“Oh, I’m so glad I caught you at the right time, then.” Adam replies, taking on the same tone Justin had just used.

“Yeah, good instinct.” The conversation lulls as Adam eases himself down onto the bench he’d piled his stuff on, his left leg stretched out at an awkward angle as he avoids bending it. Justin stands next to him, unable to think of anything to say but unwilling to leave just yet.

“Do you like,” he begins, taking a little step back so he’s not standing as weirdly close to Adam as he’d been before, “Do you go here now?”

Adam nods, already toweling off his arms and chest. Justin pretends not to notice the Schooners logo on the corner. “Yeah, actually. Came to campus early because I’m starting a job in the area, and my physical therapist recommended this class, so.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly before continuing. “I’m guessing you’re a student?”

Justin nods, eyes jumping between the bench, the tile floor, and Adam’s chest as he tries to figure out if he should sit next to him or get the hell out of Dodge before he says something stupid. “Yeah, about to start junior year.” God, he sounds so lame. Maybe he’ll just go jump in the pool.

“Cool.” Adam says, and sounds like he means it. Justin looks up, almost relieved that Adam’s placed the towel over his shoulders, covering his torso so Justin can actually think. He idly scratches his beard, looking unsure for a moment before speaking. “So, uh, I know this is probably way too forward and you’re probably only interested in girls or guys with two completely working legs, and shit, that makes you sound ableist and I don’t think you are so disregard that entirely but do you maybe want to go out someti - ” Just when he’d thought full brain function would be restored he freezes up again, trying to process the thought that Adam Birkholtz is stumbling over his words trying to _ask him out_ and Justin isn’t even saying anything.

“Yes!” He says, unable to wait for Adam to finish. The other man’s thick eyebrows furrow together in confusion, and Justin scrambles to explain himself. “Wait, no, I’m not only interested in guys with two legs, and you’re right about me not being ableist, what I’m trying to say is I’m interested in you even though you have two legs, too, I guess? Ah, shit, you know what I’m trying to say.” Adam’s sheepish smile returns, and he ducks his head in a motion Justin is quickly coming to love.

“Yes, of course, but just to make sure: You want to go out with me?” He looks up at Justin through his lashes, and it shouldn’t be as appealing as it is, but Justin’s long, long gone.

Justin takes a deep breath and lets it go, forcing out the panicked, embarrassed, and generally unhelpful thoughts cluttering his brain. “I want to go out with you.”

Adam slumps a bit in relief, that same smile lighting up his features. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Just repeats as Adam beams up at him, and Justin knows he needs to get out right fucking now or else he’s going to do something embarrassing and Adam won’t ever want to see him again. He’s about to make a run for it when Adam digs through his stuff and produces his phone, which he hands to Justin after he unlocks it and before he knows it, Justin is putting his number into Adam Birkholtz’ phone. He hadn’t even gotten this far when he’d fantasized about meeting him. He quickly enters his number (complete with a stream of water-themed emojis, because he’s not too flustered to show some personality) and hands back the phone.

Their fingers brush when Adam takes it back, and it isn’t really romantic because his finger pads are still wrinkled and damp, but Justin figures it’s a good first step. He has to acclimatize somehow. “I’ll see you soon, then?” Adam asks, leaning to rest his back against the wall.

Justin nods firmly. “Definitely. You good?” He gestures loosely in the direction of the locker room, knowing it would be both supremely weird for them to go in together but also supremely shitty for him to leave Adam out here if he’s unable to walk back.

Adam nods, flashing him a thumbs up, and Justin spins and walks away so he can have a second of goddamn peace and quiet to process the fact that he’s going to go on a date with the guy who’s checking compilation he’s watched at least twenty five times. He’s barely across the room when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

 **Unknown Number:** I can’t believe you put _[Splash Emoji][Frog Emoji][Wave Emoji]_ in your contact info.

 **Unknown Number:** What are my emojis going to be?

Unable to help himself, Justin glances back across the pool, grinning when he sees Adam looking over at him. He quickly adds the number to his contacts, taking a moment to carefully select the appropriate emojis. When he’s finished he shoots off a text and gives Adam a final wave before entering the locker room.

 **Me:** want 2 find out tomorrow? Annie’s at 3?

 **Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** It’s a date.

* * *

The best and worst moments of Adam Birkholtz’ life have taken place in a hockey rink, so it stands to reason that his latest embarrassment takes place here, too. His first kiss was in a dressing room, he’s won medals at tournaments all over the world, and just a few months ago his entire world shattered along with most of the cartilage in his knee.  This, though. This has got to be on the top five list of Worst Things To Happen To Adam Birkholtz (Romantic Edition).

For almost full month after getting out of the hospital Adam had laid in his apartment in a depressed fog, only leaving for physical therapy appointments. It had been a low point - the lowest he’d ever faced - but an offer from Samwell had forced him into the world again. Coach Hall, whose brother had coached his USHL team, offered him the defensive coach position at Samwell, where he could also take classes at the same time. It had initially seemed like a good idea, getting his degree and still doing something related to hockey, but now he sees that the entire idea was a giant fucking mistake.

Justin, of Gentle Water Aerobics with Justin, is standing in front of him with his team in a Samwell practice jersey, and Adam has about three seconds to deal with the fact that he’s going to be coaching the guy who watched him struggle to keep pace during frog jumps, the guy who had to help him walk four meters, the guy he’d shamelessly flirted with several hours ago, the guy he’d asked on a fucking date.

Coaches Murray and Hall give him an expectant look, and Adam realizes his introduction must have ended. He tears his eyes away from Justin’s shocked face and scans it over the rest of the team. “Uhm,’ He begins, desperately trying to form a cohesive sentence. "Hey. I’m Adam. I know you’re probably curious about some things so I’ll take any question for the next thirty seconds and then never again, got it? Time starts now.”

There’s about a half second of silence before the flurry of questions begin, and Adam points at someone randomly. “How heavy is the Stanley Cup?” The words have barely left the guy’s mouth before his friend fist bumps him. Weird.

“Don’t know, wasn’t there for the celebration.” Adam says flippantly, as if watching his team win the Stanley Cup from a hospital bed wasn’t the worst moment of his life. The answer dims the enthusiasm of the group as they collectively seem to remember his injury, and he can’t have that. He points at a tall, freckled kid in the back.

“Can you skate yet?” The kid looks a strange mix of angry and worried, but Adam can’t blame him for the question. “Nope, I’ll yell at you from over here for the time being.” That seems to relax the group again, and he points to a short, blonde kid up front.

“What’s your favorite kind of pie?” And yeah, that’s the last thing Adam was expecting. The kid seems so excited, though, so Adam shrugs and tries to think of the last time he ate pie. “Blueberry, but I don’t eat pie that often.” The team looks at each other and the blond kid just grins, and Adam really doesn’t know what to make of _that_ so he moves on.

"When’s your Cup day?” Someone calls out. Adam shrugs, leaning forward to rest his hands on the boards. He didn’t play in the final game but he was on the winning team, which means get gets to spend a day with the prize he didn’t even win himself. “Early next year, January or February.” He scans the team again, and the goalie looks like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, so Adam looks at him expectantly.

“Do you like the San Jose Sharks?” The question bursts from the goalie’s lips and he looks at Adam like the answer might make or break his month. “Great players, great beards, great town. Yeah, I like them.” He can’t help but smile when he sees how happy the answer makes the goalie. Movement from the back row catches his eye as someone raises their hand.

“Can you show us how you ass checked Chara? He got like, mad air.” Adam hasn’t been doing this coaching thing long, and he’s not sure if he’s supposed to encourage that kind of behavior. It’s not illegal, but he knows he checked harder than NCAA players are supposed to. He glances over at the other coaches, who don’t seem worried, so Adam nods. “That’s really more about momentum but sure, we can work on checking if you want.” That seems to excite everyone but the small blonde guy in front, who wilts just a bit, and Adam makes a mental note to ask about that and the pies later. He stands up straight and waves off the final questions thrown at him, handing the floor back to the head coaches so practice can begin.

By the time practice ends his leg is aching from the combination of aerobics that morning and standing rinkside, he’s suffered through an extremely awkward conversation with Jack Zimmermann, two of the freshman d-men keep fighting, Justin won’t make eye contact with him (granted, he won’t make eye contact with Justin, either), and the blonde kid straight up fainted during drills, but Adam feels good about the future for the first time since that horrible night in June. Coaching is actually fun, and being near the ice doesn’t ache in the way he’d thought it would, even if watching a certain defenseman deftly skate his way through practice made parts of him ache in a way that’s wholly inappropriate.

The players have long since cleared the ice by the time Adam finishes talking with Hall in his office, but the second he steps into the dressing room his phone buzzes in his pocket.

 **Justin [Splash Emoji][Frog Emoji][Wave Emoji]:** meet me on the loading doc out back

 **Justin [Splash Emoji][Frog Emoji][Wave Emoji]:** pls

 **Me:** Where is that?

 **Justin [Splash Emoji][Frog Emoji][Wave Emoji]:** past the dressing room, last hallway, last door on the right

 **Me:** Coming

He walks as quickly as he can down the unfamiliar hallways, opening the last door to find Justin anxiously pacing the loading dock. He doesn’t notice the door open but he freezes when it closes, wide eyes locking onto Adam’s face.

"Hey,” Adam says softly, hating that he’s the reason Justin’s so freaked out. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He keeps a safe distance, knowing that the other man, who is now his coach-ee? Student? Why doesn’t he know the word for this?

Justin just resumes pacing, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Yeah, but are you? Did you tell Hall and Murray?” His gaze shifts constantly, but Adam feels its weight when it lands on him.

Adam holds up his hands in the universal gesture of ‘I mean you no harm.’ “No. I probably should have, but I didn’t. Would you like me to? I will if it makes you uncomfortable.” At this point, he’d do anything to help, but he doesn’t know how to handle this situation.

Justin stops pacing but shakes his head, almost as if his body can’t handle standing still at the moment. Adam gets it. He feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin from the tension. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“You look it.” Adam says honestly, crossing his arms so Justin doesn’t think he’ll do anything inappropriate. “Look, we won’t go out, I obviously won’t flirt with you anymore, I’ll take another water aerobics class with a different instructor - ”

Justin cuts him off before he can finish, taking a step towards him. “I teach the only ones not during practice, and what you said about your physical therapist…” He trails off, shoulders slumping as if he can’t stand the thought of Adam disregarding the advice of a doctor.

Adam takes another step back, trying to maintain the distance between them, despite the fact that all he wants to do is move closer. "I won’t go if it freaks you out.” He promises, sincerity bleeding through every word.

“I’m not freaked out!” Justin sounds exasperated, the words highlighted by a tinge of panic he can’t hide. “I’m not uncomfortable, I’m anxious, I have anxiety and I don’t deal with it well but it’s not you. I’m not like this because of you. I’m like this because I like you when I shouldn’t because you’re my coach now and I didn’t plan for it and I don’t know how this affects things because hockey balances my life and I don’t do well when I’m not balanced, I really don’t because then it’s just school all the time and I can’t deal with just school I, I…” He gesticulates wildly as he speaks, moving so quickly towards the end that Adam is worried his white snapback will fly off his head. Professionalism be damned, Adam can’t let him work himself into a panic. He takes a decisive step forward, relieved when Justin doesn’t shy away.

“Everything is going to be all right, Justin, I promise.” Adam keeps his voice level, reaching out to gently cup his hand over one of Justin’s forearms in an effort to calm him. “You won’t have to stop playing hockey. I’m not going to let that happen to you.” His voice goes a little thick but he powers through it. Now’s not the time to think about how his future was taken away from him and all he has now is this coaching gig. He swallows the emotion down, relieved that Justin’s breathing has at least leveled. “Nothing will change for you, all right? I’m going to be professional and all you have to worry about is playing. That’s it. You can do that.”

“I can do that.” The words are soft but sure, and Justin looks at him fully for the first time since they saw each other at practice. He looks – sad, mostly. Resigned. Adam knows exactly how he feels.

They look at each other for a long moment, until Adam drops his hand from Justin’s arm and takes a step back. “Yeah, you can.” Justin’s not panicked anymore and there’s no reason for him to linger, so Adam forces himself to turn and open the door. He pauses, glancing back at all his might-have-beens, and takes a breath. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. For practice.” He slips back into the hall, knowing he made the right decision. He can’t lose this job. He needs this just as much as Justin does, and nothing between them could be worth jeopardizing something they both love so much. He’ll just have to get over his crush. He’s done it before and he has no doubt he’ll do it again. Everything will be fine.


	2. lean in on the oar

Everything was not fine.

They get through practices easily enough to both their surprise. It’s early in the preseason so practices are focused on building team unity and assessing skill, not one-on-one coach/player development, and Adam can’t decide if he’s excited or nervous for that day to come with Justin. One the one hand, it’s awkward. It’s weird and strange and neither of them really knows what to do about it, but on the other hand...Justin is an incredible athlete. He can play right and left equally well, he tracks the puck and pursues scoring opportunities even in scrimmages. His previous defense partner graduated last spring but he’s still first line material, even if they haven’t secured his partner for this season yet. Adam’s not sure why they haven’t assigned Poindexter or Nurse to him yet, but Murray is inexplicably set on keeping those two together.

One night, hours into watching last season’s tape, Adam has a frightening thought: What would he have done if he hadn’t been drafted? Would he have come to Samwell anyway? Would they be partners? Would they even be friends? Would they be more? The questions are overwhelming enough, but the impossible scenarios racing through his mind are enough to make him pop a vicodin and flop into bed with only a mound of pillows for company.

Adam has to get over this crush. He tells himself that before every practice, after every practice, when he’s alone in his apartment doing his stretches. He mumbles it under his breath as he carefully steps into the pool a week later, only stopping when he wades over to where Linda, Diane, Beth, and Tabitha are gathered before class.

“Ladies,” He croons, pointing finger guns at Tabitha. They laugh and wave him off, amused by his antics, and he settles in and begins stretching his arms. “How’s it going, Beth?” He asks, trying not to notice Linda's ever-watchful gaze.

Beth flicks water at him playfully. “I saw you talking to our fearless leader after class.” She says, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. It’s dramatic and usually Adam would eat it up because he loves gossip just as much as she does, but he just shrugs off her question and looks down at the water.

“Oh, yeah, he was helping me get to the bench. Remember when walking was easy?” He jokes, and for a minute it seems like she’s going to drop it (old people love talking about when they weren’t old, he’s discovered) but she presses on.

“Oh, I remember, but I’m not sure how getting his phone number helped you walk.” Beth glances at Justin, who’s currently stretching by the kickboard stand, but her mischievous smile vanishes the moment she looks back at Adam.  “Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” She places a comforting hand on his forearm and Adam winces, knowing his face must be doing that stupid wistful look he falls into nowadays.

He pats the back of her hand, turning to face her fully. “Don’t worry, Beth. It’s just a weird situation. I - ” Adam looks up at Justin, then back down at the clear water. The pink scar on his knee, usually straight as an arrow, dances as it refracts beneath the surface. “It's not going to work out,” Adam says, and Beth squeezes his arm silently.

There’s clapping and an echo-y greeting and then Justin’s starting class. The next thing Adam knows he's waving his arms and making waves with a bunch of septuagenarians. He looks ridiculous and his knee doesn't feel much better than it did last week but he's been told by every doctor and physical therapist he's seen that progress will feel glacial. He feels like a glacier himself when he exits the pool after class, wet and freezing and walking across the slippery tile at the speed of a mile per century. Just when he thinks he's going to have to sit down and scoot over to the bench on his ass there's a warm presence at his side. Before he can protest Justin has a steadying arm around his back and a hand under his arm.

"Thanks," He mumbles, gaze trained on the floor, as if knowing exactly which tile he's on will help him keep his balance. He uses the same technique in the shower and it’s worked so far.

Justin tightens his grip on Adam’s arm. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to come today.” He says quietly, and Adam hates that he’s the reason Justin is so unsure. They take another step forward, somehow already in sync.

“I didn’t either until this morning.” Adam says truthfully. He hadn’t even set an alarm to wake up in time, but something had forced him out of bed. Justin smiles and Adam realizes,  _ oh, that’s what. _

“I’m glad you did. It’s like - you’re my coach, right? But here I’m kind of your coach so it feels more equal.” Justin raises his shoulder in a little shrug. 

Adam can’t stomp down the burst of incredulous laughter that bursts from his throat. “ _ Equal? _ You think me flopping around in the water is the same as watching you skate?” He doesn’t have words for how incredible Justin looks on the ice but he has a few choice ones for the mental picture he has of himself in the water.

Justin laughs and pats his side, and Adam's suddenly aware that he's still shirtless and soaking wet. “Well, you’re a very good flopper. Excellent form on your k-treads.” There's a smile in his voice but he also sounds genuine, as if he thinks Adam really is improving even though Adam couldn't agree less.

“Yeah, but I’m bad at every supine you throw at me.” Adam sighs, remembering how awkward he'd felt as he'd tried to maneuver himself into the position. It's been months since the accident but he still forgets that his body is going to fail him.

“You know, if you need any extra help with technique…” Justin trails off, and hope sparks in Adam’s chest for one perfect second before he carefully extinguishes it. He’s about to shake his head and explain why he can’t even if he  _ wants _ when Justin continues. “You can ask Tabitha. She’s my best student.” Justin finishes his sentence just as they arrive at the bench, and Adam eases himself down carefully. He laughs, half in relief at arriving safely and half from the chirp.

“That’s cold, dude.” Adam says, leaning against the backrest as he begins to dry himself off in quick strokes. Justin watches him for a half second before looking around the room, checking over both shoulders before sitting down next to Adam. His knee presses into Adam's thigh, all light pressure and sudden warmth.

Justin sits in silence, hesitating for a long moment before speaking. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Adam stills his hands, letting the towel fall to his lap so he can turn to face Justin head on. “Sure. What’s up?” He tries to keep his voice light despite the small ball of dread that's formed in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Justin's going to tell him he shouldn't come to aerobics anymore - maybe he's going to ask if Adam will tell Hall and Murray how inappropriate he'd been - maybe he's going to ask Adam to resign and --

Justin's voice halts his increasingly panicked thoughts. “Can we like, be friends? Here, at least? You’re my coach and I’ll listen to whatever you say at practice and during games and stuff but." He cuts himself off with a short huff, trying to find the right words. "I don’t want to stop joking around or talking with you when it’s just us. Or would that violate the Coach Honor Code?” Justin's brows are downturned in worry but there's a small smile on his lips, and he looks so hopeful Adam's immediate instinct to turn him down is halted in its tracks. Adam's at a crossroad. If he says yes, he'll get too close. If he says no, he'll be alienating himself from the one person at Samwell he has a connection with. Justin's waiting patiently for his answer, face steady even as his hands pick at the hem of his shorts nervously, and it's the small, vulnerable motion of his fingers that makes Adam's decision for him.

“You know," Adam begins slowly. "No one mentioned that during the swearing-in ceremony of the International Society of Collegiate Ice Hockey Coaches, so...Yeah. Let’s do it.” Justin's beaming, and Adam can't regret his decision. He'll be careful.

* * *

Adam’s sitting in his first class of undergrad at the ripe old age of 23 and he’s surrounded by infants. Samwell is a liberal arts college so he knew he’d be in some core curriculum classes with other freshmen but he hadn’t expected how fucking ancient he’d feel. The beard definitely doesn’t help, he thinks, scratching along his jaw awkwardly. The stares he’s getting just might be the catalyst he needs to shave it.

He slumps in his seat, trying to look less massive in the sea of tiny babies he’s found himself in. Adam seriously considers leaving but the seats next to him had filled up far before the rest of the lecture hall. He’s encircled by fresh-faced eighteen year olds who keep asking him for pencils and checking if they’re in the right room. He’s trapped, surrounded on all sides, and if one more freshman laughs and places a hand on his arm he thinks he’s going to snap. Just when he’s planned the perfect escape route three familiar faces walk in.

It’s the freshmen defense: Chow, Nurse, and Poindexter.

It makes sense that they’re here - all four of them are starting at the same time and have the exact same schedule constraints with games and practices. The more he thinks about it the more obvious it becomes, and it’s weird. It’s so weird. He’s worked so hard to keep a healthy distance between himself and the team - between himself and  _ Justin _ \- and now it all seems so futile. Maybe he could - would it be so bad if - it just might be possible for them to -

His circling thoughts are interrupted by a sudden flurry of movement in front of him. Chow, Nurse, and Poindexter have spotted him and they’re settled into seats directly below him. Chow opens his mouth to speak but the professor saunters in and begins class before he can say anything. The professor begins to talk about attendance and expectations and Adam tries to pay attention, he does, but every expectation and boundary he'd constructed has knotted up inside him, tangled and heavy as it sits in the pit of his stomach. He can hear Nurse and Poindexter whisper-fighting throughout class and every now and again Chow looks back at him like he’s checking to make sure Adam’s really there.

Adam’s there, all right. He’s pinned in by  _ youths _ and  _ Frogs _ and he doesn't know how to feel about any of it.

The rest of class passes in a long, awkward blur. He hears something about due dates and plagiarism and gender neutral language but Adam can't concentrate on any of it, too busy trying to determine exactly where to draw the lines between being a  _ coach _ and  _ classmate _ and  _ friend _ and  _ more _ without becoming the weird old guy who's hanging out with teenagers.

He's drawn from his thoughts by the sudden movements of everyone around him standing up and shuffling out. Class has ended, and he hadn't even noticed. He's just shoved the syllabus into his bag when Nurse stands and turns around, looking relaxed even in the chaos of a hundred-odd people flooding out of the room.

"Hey, C and Dex and I are going to get coffee and chill on the beach before practice." Nurse pauses, expecting an answer, but Adam stays silent. "You could like, come with us if you wanted." He continues, steady gaze falling directly on Adam's face. It's unnerving, being the sole focus of someone's attention outside of the rink. When he's there he can hide behind drills and the literal barrier between himself and the players, since he doesn't get on the ice with them, but now it's him and the freshmen. He looks between them, wondering if he should go. They're five years his junior but apparently his peers but there's still the strangeness of being their coach and if he's willing to be their friend then he can be  _ Justin's _ friend and that leads to being more than friends and he's gone over why that's not possible too many times to count so Adam just shakes his head, halting the increasingly panicked flow of thoughts.

"Thanks, Nurse, but I'll see you at practice." Nurse nods, accepting the dismissal easily but Chow visibly deflates. Adam's stomach twists when the goaltender gives him a little wave and heads out of the lecture hall, Nurse and Poindexter close behind him. As he slings his backpack over his shoulder he realizes he's not only uncomfortable; he's disappointed. He wants to hang out with them. Awkward as it may be, he wants to consider them friends - all of them, the entire team. He'd thought that the draw he felt towards Justin was a one-off, a moment of weakness that's dragged on far too long, but he's getting too close to the entire team to avoid the slippery slope of familiarity. If he becomes their friend, he'll be tempted to get closer to Justin when he's already promised that he won't.

Adam sighs and makes his way out of the lecture hall, taking his time on the steps. He has to stop and reset his position before every step, too cautious to place his full weight on his bad knee. Forward, pause, forward, pause. The halting rhythm is all too familiar these days.

* * *

In all honesty, Adam can't tell if he just had one of the best or worst Friday nights of his life. He'd had fun, but the objective fact is that spending the evening with a sixty three year old woman in a library because he doesn't really know anyone else in Samwell other than the players he's coaching sounds absolutely pathetic. Still, hanging out with Beth during her late shift had been a good time. He just has to come to terms with the fact that his closest friend is an elderly librarian he met in water aerobics.

Adam's been out of Founder's for all of thirty seconds when he hears the shouting and laughter of familiar voices across the quad, and before he can stop himself he’s walking past the Well to investigate. When he gets closer he’s greeted by the sight of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team parading four mostly-naked men by the pond. He's content to let them walk past and continue their - what did they call it? Hazeapalooza? - when Knight, who's leading the procession, stops suddenly. He turns in one sharp motion and points directly at Adam. He can feel the weight of each gaze drop on him as each team member looks over in quick succession, but before he can try to get away the team crowds around him.

"Hey, boys." He begins, a little worried by the intense look Knight's directing towards him. The team is eerily silent.

Knight's mustache twitches as he looks Adam up and down. "Were you just in the library? Studying?" He asks slowly. Adam's tempted to lie, but he's standing in the quad directly in front of the library, the only building open this time of night. It's either that or pretend like he just walks through campus alone in the dark.

"Yes? Why do you ask?" Adam looks at the team, hoping one of them will help him out, but they're all looking to Knight.

"Right, right, right, right, right, I forgot, you're a student." The glint in Knight's eye makes him distinctly uncomfortable. Objectively, he knows he doesn't have anything to be ashamed. Samwell offered him the opportunity to take classes while he coached and Hall and Murray hadn't ever seemed worried about his class schedule. He hasn't done anything wrong. Knowing it doesn't ease the churning in his stomach.

He takes a step back, feeling trapped by the circle of hockey playes around him. He's bigger than them but they have the distinct advantage of numbers and full physical ability. Adam swallows. "Uh, technically." He admits.

“Yeah, he’s in our seminar!” Chow, blindfolded and almost naked, adds, and Knight's eyes light up. Adam groans, knowing that light doesn't bode well for him. Knight cackles in unabashed glee.

"Technically...You're a freshman." He continues, speaking slowly as his intentions become clearer and clearer. Adam doesn’t like the turn things are taking one bit. 

Adam sighs, looking up at the dark sky, hoping he'll find some reservoir of patience he's buried deep. "I guess that's right."

"Which means you're a Frog." Knight points at him accusingly.

"No." Adam says firmly. "You have to be on the team to be a frog." Knight just takes another step forward, reaching out to place both hands on Adam's shoulders. Adam's not entirely sure why he's wearing sunglasses when it's already dark out; he can barely make out his own frowning reflection in the dark lenses.

Knight looks up at him for a long moment before nodding his head in one decisive burst of movement. "Yeah, you’re definitely a frog. We got another one!" Knight throws his hands in the air triumphantly as the team cheers, and Adam turns to Justin for help.

"He wants to initiate you." Justin explains. His sunglasses are resting on his forehead so Adam can at least see his eyes.

Adam shakes his head, holding up his hands. "Oh, I don't think that's appropri - " He sputters, but Knight refuses to drop it. He goes up on his toes to wind an arm around Adam's shoulders, bridging the heigh gap between them through sheer force of will.

"Fuck propriety! You're one of us, dude!" He yells directly into Adam's ear. Adam winces and leans away but Knight's holding on tight. He looks to Justin again, hoping he'll have some way to get him out of this, but Justin just shrugs and gestures to the team.

They’re all looking at him, and it’s clear that they want him to come. Even without the weirdness of being their coach, Adam’s hesitant to accept for another reason. They don’t actually want him, Adam Birkholtz, to come. They want Holtz, #4 for the Seattle Schooners and professional hockey player, to come. It feels disingenuous for him to accept when they won’t even get what they expect. Still...Chow somehow manages to look excited even when he’s blindfolded, and Bittle’s looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. Even Jack is smiling, and when he glances over at Justin, who’s worrying his bottom lip, he can’t say no. He wants to be a part of this, even if he's told himself time and time again that it's not a good idea.

"I can't formally be a part of this, but...I did park my car by Faber, and if you're heading that way..." He trails off, unable to keep from giving in. The team cheers and they immediately set off, traipsing past the commons, through the North Quad until they reach Faber. Larissa unlocks the doors and the team storms in, running through the halls as they whoop and yell. Adam walks behind them, wondering how long he'll have to stick around before everyone else realizes just how strange it is that he's there. No one seems to notice as they weave through the building until they reach the rink itself.

The cool air drapes over Adam's shoulders when he pauses just before stepping onto the ice. He holds onto the boards with a white-knuckled grip, trying to work up the nerve to step off the rubber pads. Justin turns back, somehow already attuned to Adam’s every mood, looking back at him with concern.

“You good, dude?” Justin asks, making his way back to stand across from him.

Adam nods, an automatic reaction. “Yeah, it’s just. It’s been a while.” Three months and four days, to be exact. Justin hums, a low, throaty sound, and leans against the boards.

"You haven't been on the ice since it happened?" Justin asks softly. Adam shakes his head. His only solace is that Justin has seen him in far more embarrassing positions during water aerobics. Adam can feel Justin's gaze on the back of his hand but he doesn't dare let go of the boards. He's not even on the ice yet and he's nervous.

"You can make it," Justin says suddenly. When Adam looks up his eyes are intense but earnest; he really believes what he's saying. "I mean it. You haven't fallen once after aerobics class and it's less slippery out here than it is by the pool." Adam stares at him, considering, and Justin meets his gaze.

Adam has imagined this moment too many times to count, and he never, not once, considered that his return to the ice would be during the initiation of a team he's not even on when he isn’t even fully healed. He’d always skipped the recovery in his head, even though he objectively knows he’d have to do months of skating to get back into NHL shape. When he was in the hospital, or moping at home post-op, or when his physical therapist bent his leg into the most painful position possible, Adam always imagined stepping onto home ice in Seattle, the crowd screaming as he joined his teammates in a pre-game warmup. He’s supposed to be in a Schooner’s uniform and skates, not a faded Dunder Mifflin t-shirt and sneakers thousands of miles away from home ice.

The rest of the team hasn’t noticed his hesitance, yet, focused as they are on guiding their freshmen and captain to center ice and setting up the coolers of beer and fucking fire cones, apparently? Justin is watching and waiting, though, and Adam can’t distract him from bonding with his team, so he takes in a deep breath and steps onto the ice for the first time since that horrible day in June.

It’s really not that bad. The conditioned air is cool in his lungs and Justin’s gaze is heavy on him, but he has enough traction and caution to take a few steps, and then a few more, until he’s walking by Justin to join the team on center ice.

“You coming?” He ask when he moves past, and Justin’s soft laugh is enough to give him the confidence to keep walking, slowly but surely, until he’s joined the crowd. It’s strange how normal it feels to stand among them, and despite the divide he’s been so aware of, he realizes that there’s actually space for him here. Larissa hands him a beer while O'Meara and Wicks include him in their pre and post fist bump conversation, and Adam thinks he just might get away with this when Knight appears right beside him.

“C’mon, brah, I can’t make you strip because of professionalism or whatever, but you’ve gotta kneel if you’re being initiated.” Knight says. He places his hands on Adam's shoulders, trying to push him towards the Frogs who are already kneeling on the ice.

Adam shakes his head and stands his ground "I really can't - " Knight has enough sense not to try to shove him but he cuts him off nevertheless.

“No! No more of that, dude, you’re a part of this now!” Adam can't really argue with that. He's here for better or for worse. He turns around and Knight's suddenly right there, in his space, and Adam defaults to the truth.

“I mean I  _ can’t _ , as in physically can’t.” He explains, and Knight immediately flushes in embarrassment.

“I fucked up, man, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I didn’t take accessibility into account, that’s on me.” He pulls off his sunglasses, voice low and serious for the first time all evening. He claps a hand on Adam's shoulder, giving the muscle a firm squeeze. It's oddly comforting coming from a man wearing only hockey pants and a mustache straight out of a 1970's porno.

Adam shrugs. “Nah, you didn’t know, I’ll be fine.” It's impossible to know who on the team knows the full extent of his injury. It was announced when he retired but he's not sure if anyone on the team read the press release. No one ever brings up his injury.

“No, we have to have your back. Rans! Get over here!” Justin hadn't gone far and is back at Adam's side in a flash. He immediately feels more at ease. Knight places his other hand on Justin's shoulder and addresses him seriously. “You are hereby charged with the sacred god damn duty of keeping this man safe. Do you accept?” He asks.

Justin's biting his lip to keep from laughing but he manages to nod gravely. “I accept.”

Knight whoops, the sound immediately echoing around the rink. “Fuck yeah. Let’s get this fucking thing started.” He slaps them both on the back before running back over to the initiates to begin the proceedings.

Bittle sidles up to him when Justin gets distracted by the frogs bickering. The forward’s shoulders are slumped as he looks down at the tupperware he’s holding. “I can’t believe Shitty won’t let me give them just one lil’ sweater! I was freezing during this part.”

“I don’t have much experience with Samwell traditions, but I don’t think there are pies in hazing.” Adam says, hands Justin the beer Larissa had given him as he speaks. Justin takes it seamlessly, almost as if he'd been expecting it.

“Maybe not, but…” Bittle trails off, looking up at him with a calculating expression. “It would make me feel a whole lot better if just one of the frogs got some pie.” He sways, rocking up to his toes. “And Shitty said you’re a frog.” He continues, looking far too pleased with himself.

“He said that, but that doesn’t make it true.” Adam says, worried by the glint in his eye. Bittle might crumple into a ball at the first sign of physicality but now he's advancing on Adam with a steely determination. Adam might be taller and broader but he has a sinking suspicion he's not going to get out of this unscathed.

“But you’re a freshman, and I’m a sophomore, which means I get to make you do whatever I want because I’m hazing you! You’re being hazed, Coach Birkholtz!” Bittle attempts something akin to an evil laugh, but it's more endearing than frightening. Adam crosses his arms and looks down at him, one eyebrow raised.

“You know, calling me coach really takes the wind out of the sails of your sophomore authority.” He points out. Bittle frowns and draws the stack of tupperware and sweaters close to his chest.

“You’re being hazed, Holtz!” Bittle tries, sounding triumphant until he looks up at Adam. His face falls, and Adam realizes he must be doing that wistful thing again. “I’m sorry, did I get it wrong? Ransom always called you that when he watched your games.” Justin’s currently shotgunning the beer three feet away from them but he sputters when Bittle drops that piece of information, white foam dripping down his chin and throat. Adam coughs and looks down at the ice, trying desperately not to think about Justin watching a game just for him, maybe even  _ wearing his jersey _ , and fuck, if he lets himself go down this path he'll have to lay on the ice to avoid embarrassment. Adam shakes his head forcefully, trying to knock the mounting fantasies away as Justin cleans himself off with one of the spare bandanas.

“No, that’s me. Well, that  _ was _ me. It’s, uh, it’s been a while since someone called me that.” Adam looks down at the ice, raising his shoulders in a sheepish shrug. Eric Bittle is five feet and six and a half inches of Southern comfort and it feels safe to admit that he's not that guy anymore.

Bittle just nods, kind gaze trained on Adam's face. “We can call you something else." He says. "What other nicknames have you had? It feels weird to use your first name."

Adam can understand that. “Boys back in Juniors called me Birker.” He says with a wince, remembering the terrible nickname. Thankfully Bittle automatically shakes his head as Justin balks.

“Back in Toronto the boys all called me Ranser.” Justin commiserates, finally recovered from the onslaught of foam from his fumbled shotgun. Knight chooses that moment to wander by, sunglasses hanging off one ear and beer foam in his mustache.

“Oh, shit! Ransom,” He throws himself against Justin, wrapping one arm around his torso as he points to Adam with the other. “And Holster. Sick nicknames." Knight presses a sloppy kiss to Ransom's forehead, wandering off as quickly as he'd appeared. Adam barely notices him leave, too focused on the syllables echoing in his head long after the rink swallows the original sounds. Justin's staring straight at him, frozen.

_ Ransom and Holster _ . It's perfect. Something unknots in Holster's chest, some long-forgotten ball of tension he's been carrying around since he arrived at the first practice of the year. The shadowy corners of the rink seem brighter, the moonlight streaming through the windows more ethereal. Ransom's smiling and he is, too, and everything that seemed so wrong about his presence at Hazeapalooza fades away.

“Holster, you’re being hazed!” Bitty crows with joy, laughing in a way that would be maniacal if it wasn't so endearing.

“All right, all right, what horrors will you enact upon me?” Holster holds up his hands in surrender, completely at Bitty's mercy. He’s just a  _ freshman _ , after all.

“You have to eat pie! So much of it! Before it gets cold.” Bitty thrusts the tupperware into his hands and opens the lid. The smell of fresh-baked pie wafts out immediately. He can tell that the crust is still perfectly crisp and flaky even though the warm pie’s been sitting in its own steam. 

“Lay it on me, Bitty.” He says, and Bitty's smile grows impossibly wider. Yeah, Adam’s dreamed of returning to the ice a million times, but he never, not once, thought he’d end up eating still-warm-from-the-oven pie as he watches a mostly-naked Jack Zimmermann howl with his classmates. It’s nice to be Holster, for a little while. He's not sure how long it will last after tonight but for now, it's harmless. Most of the team won't even remember he's there, judging by the rate at which the cooler of beers empties. He watches the ceremony with the team but peels off when they decide to go back to the Haus.

"Holster!" Adam turns, body already attuned to the name. Justi -  _ Ransom's _ jogging up to him, cheeks flushed. His sunglasses are hanging from the collar of his shirt and he's lost his bandanna somewhere in the chaos of initiation but he's smiling, clear and bright, and Holster can't help but grin in return. "I'm really glad you came, dude. Did you have fun?" He asks, idly rubbing his hands over his bare biceps to warm up now that they're out of the rink.

"I did. I didn't expect it, but I did." Holster says. Ransom's smile grows wider, and he holds out a fist for Holster to bump before he runs off to re-join the team. Adam feels warm as he wanders out to his car and drives home, his knuckles tingling long after he arrives at his apartment.

* * *

The first roadie is a deeply confusing experience.

Adam spends the first half of the bus ride in the front with Hall and Murray, bent over a clipboard as they determine the lineup and discuss various plays. It's only the first away game of the season so team cohesion isn't quite where it needs to be, but Adam knows that after a hard fought game and a night in a crappy hotel the team will be closer than ever. He discusses the state of the defensive line until his knee protests too much, and Hall and Murray finish up without him as he makes his way to the only open pair of seats that's tucked firmly in the middle of the bus. The team stares as he makes his way back, but the second he stretches out his leg on the seat they all seem to realize why he's ventured back there and the chatter picks up again. Justin is curled up in the row across from him, knees tucked against his chest as he devours the textbook in front of him, but before Adam can weigh the pros and cons of disturbing him Chow's head pops up from behind his head rest. Bittle's appears a moment later and he immediately gives Adam a small hand pie. It's still warm from the oven despite the fact that they've been in the bust for several hours, and Bittle just responds to his questioning look with a shrug.

"My moomaw - my grandma, that is - says that'll cure any ailment." Bittle's voice is matter of fact, as if his moomaw's advice is law. Adam nods, a little relieved that someone's actually acknowledging his injury, the huge, life altering thing that affects him every single day that no one ever wants to talk about.

"My grandma's the same way with her kneidel." Adam says. He's tried to keep the personal talk to minimum with the players, but even he can't pass up an opportunity to talk about his grandmother's cooking. Bittle's eyes light up and he immediately launches into a string of questions about the recipe, hardly stopping to breathe or to wait for Adam's answers. He's just asked about the texture for the third time when Jack cuts in.

He's seated next to Knight across the aisle from Bittle and Chow and doesn't look up from his book when he speaks. "Kneidel is another word for matzo balls, Bittle. You tried some at Passover last year." His voice is matter-of-fact but not cold, reminding but not chastising.

Shitty, who Adam had hoped was asleep, stirs in his seat. He leans against Jack, entering his space easily as he flops on top of the book. "Fuck yeah! Zimmerball soup was the tits!"

The conversation turns to last year's Haus-wide Manischewitz-heavy celebration, but Jack just turns the page and settles in his seat. It's astonishing how he can capture the team's attention with a few words but always relinquishes it the moment he's finished.

Adam leans his head back against the cool glass of the window and takes a bite of the hand pie. Blueberry, just like he'd mentioned at the first practice. The filling is warm and sweet and perfect and the crust gets all over his pullover and later, when he's brushing the final crumbs out of his beard in the home team's guest facilities after he's changed into his suit, he's surprised to find it may have actually worked.. He bends his knees experimentally, relieved that the muscles aren't seizing up after the long bus ride. He knows better than to put too much stock in it; there will be more ups and downs to come.

He stares at his reflection as he ties his tie, studying his own face intently. He looks better than he has in a while, but that's probably more to do with the fact he got his haircut at an actual barber shop instead of doing it himself. The navy suit he's wearing looks nondescript; he's hoping between the beard and the neutral color he won't stand out much.

The dressing room is a whirlwind of activity as the boys rush back and forth to find their gear. Jack's taping his stick with an intensity that's frankly frightening and Chow's eyeing a wayward puck warily as Knight's latest profane-laced rant carries over the general din of thirty-odd men clamoring about. He stops by Nurse and Poindexter's booths to make sure they haven't started fighting yet (they have), swings by Bittle to give him a word of encouragement (I'm still thinking we can make a play out of that), and ends up by Justin just as he's lacing up his skates.

"Nursey and Dex still fighting?" Justin asks offhand as he ties the laces with sure movements. He looks up just as Adam's about to reply, eyes growing wide. Adam turns, concerned that something terrible is happening directly behind him, but all he sees is Ollie and Wicks taping each others shinguards. Weird, but not at all enough to warrant Justin's wide-eyed stare. When he turns Justin is looking him up and down, eyes tracing over the lines of his suit, and --  _ oh _ .

He must look better than he thought.

Adam coughs, once, and waits until Ransom's eyes are back on his face before replying. "They were, but I calmed them down."

Justin looks up at him in surprise, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline. Oh, no. He's  _ cute.  _ "How'd you manage that?"

"You just have to remind them why they work well together." Adam explains with a half-shrug. Justin looks dubious and glances over at the frogs, but they're both pulling on their uniforms in relative peace. "Since we've got this three man rotation going you'll be there as a buffer." Adam says as he sits down in the empty cubby beside Justin, stretching his leg out in front of him. Standing for the next three periods isn't going to be pleasant. Justin's eyes flicker down to his knee; Adam can tell he's already planning Monday's water aerobics class in his mind.

"So I have to keep them from fighting  _ and _ play?" Justin asks, lips turning down in a worried frown. He's been caught between the freshman too many times to count.

Adam immediately shakes his head. "No, I'll keep them from fighting. You just play and when they see your focus, they'll be focused, too." True to Adam's word, Nurse and Poindexter are both concentrated on the game from the first puck drop to the last buzzer. They bicker between periods but Adam's always within earshot, stepping in to diffuse any chirps that threaten to become more. He's just switched their gloves back to the rightful owner (how on earth did they manage to trade mid-game?) when Larissa appears by his elbow. She's a steady, calming presence in the chaos of the dressing room.

"Hey, Larissa, did you see where I left that whiteboard?" He asks, glancing around the immediate area. He moves a bag to the side with his foot, hoping it hasn't fallen to the floor. The manager is silent beside him, but when he turns she's gazing up at him head on.  "Larissa." Adam repeats, confused by her silence. They stare at each other, as Adam scrolls back through every interaction he's ever had with her, trying to determine what he's done wrong. Nothing's changed, they've barely even interacted one one one since -

Adam sighs, wondering if his appearance at Hazeapalooza will finally stop haunting him. He glances around the room and leans in, hoping no one will hear him. "Lardo, do you know where my whiteboard is?" Adam tries.

The change is instantaneous. She immediately turns towards him, lips turned up in a satisfied smile. "It's right by Ransom's cubby, and here," she reaches into her pocket and produces a marker. "Is your marker. Let me know if you need anything else, Holster." He takes the marker and she's gone, walking to check in with Jack with another roll of tape already in her hand. Adam doesn't have time to dwell on the interaction, confusing as it was, and he whistles for the defensemen to gather around while he goes over their plays.

One victory later Adam's laying on a lumpy hotel bed, staring up at the ceiling while HGTV plays in the background. It's either that or QVC, and the last thing Adam needs is to order a bunch of shit he doesn't need because he's trying to distract himself from the strange place he's found himself. Just when he'd thought he'd let go of Holtz for good he'd suddenly become Holster. It's not  _ just _ a nickname - it never is for hockey players. It's two syllables of possibility and a giant step over the line of professionalism and worst of all, he loves it.

When he'd been hurt last June he hadn't just lost his career; Adam had, for the first time in his life, found himself without a team. Holtz had the Schooners, Birker had the Waterloo Black Hawks, and Adam has no one but  _ Holster _ \- Holster has Samwell Men's Hockey.

Adam closes his eyes and lets himself imagine it: living in the Haus, having his own jersey, playing with them instead of coaching them. It feels right, too right, like there's a whole life just waiting for him in some alternate universe. Adam groans and heaves himself out of bed, needing to put some distance between himself and those thoughts. He can spiral all he wants when he gets back to his apartment, but on the road he has to keep it together.

Sighing, Adam grabs the ice bucket and his key and steps out into the hall. The fluorescent lights are harsh compared to the soft glow of the television he'd become accustomed to over the last hour. He rubs his eyes as he wanders towards the ice machine, knee protesting every step. When he turns the corner he jerks in surprise, unprepared to find Murray standing in front of the ice machine in a SMH sweatshirt and mussed hair. Murray nods, a quick greeting. They stand in silence, both waiting for the churning machine to fill the bucket.

"Good work tonight, _ Holster _ ." Murray says suddenly, a sly smile playing on his lips. Adam almost drops the ice bucket. Murray just laughs softly, shoulders shaking as the ice machine grumbles beneath his hands. "Yeah, I overheard Larissa's power play." He explains, releasing the button once his ice bucket is full. The machine quiets to a soft hum.

"I know it's unprofessional," Adam begins, shrugging helplessly. "They just...decided." He says lamely, not wanting to lie but unable to say that he got the nickname when he joined in at initiation. Murray just laughs again and shakes his head.

"No, I think it's fine. You're not much older than they are, after all." Adam's stomach drops as his world tilts to the side, and Murray's standing there holding a bucket of ice like he hasn't just changed everything. "It's good for you to be close to them. They look up to you, you know." Murray says. He claps a hand on Adam's shoulder as he passes by, leaving Adam by himself but not quite as alone as before.


	3. i start to row

Ever since Bitty moved in Sunday afternoons in the Haus have been sacred. Guaranteed brunch is the ultimate means of Haus bonding and Ransom knows that no matter how stressed out he is about his upcoming anatomy test that he still has to go downstairs and show his face. He’d hoped that getting up early to look at his study guide would help relax him enough to eat without guilt but it had only set him off instead.

Ransom’s just extracted himself from under his bed, where he’s been hiding for the past hour, and is halfway down the steps when he hears the commotion at the front door.

“Oh, good morning! Come in!” Bitty's words carry through the Haus easily, bright and friendly.

“I really shouldn’t, Bittle.” Ransom stumbles on the steps when he recognizes Adam's deep voice. He grabs onto the railing to steady himself, taking a moment to prepare. Adam is _here_ , in the _Haus_.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Bitty presses, using the no-nonsense tone he employs with the team.

“No, but I - “ Adam tries to protest, falling directly into Bitty's trap.

“Then come in! I’d be remiss in my Southern Hospitality if I ever let someone turn down food.” Despite the buoyancy in Bitty's voice there's still no room for argument. When Ransom continues down the steps the scene comes into view: Bitty has the door thrown open and Adam is on the other side, shoulders curled in with his hands tucked in his pockets. Bitty might be a half foot shorter than Adam is but Ransom can tell he’s going to win this battle. As unprepared as Ransom had been to see Adam, he can’t leave him there looking so blatantly uncomfortable.

Ransom jumps the final few steps and lands right beside Bitty, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Bitty, I don’t wanna freak you out but I think I smell something burning.” He says, and Bitty bolts towards the kitchen with a worried yelp. Adam's shoulders come down from around his ears. “You really should come in. It’s not going to be weird, I promise.” Ransom says before Adam can run back to his car.

“I don’t know, I’d have felt so weird if a random coach-like figure dropped in on one of my team breakfasts.” Adam frowns and crosses his arms, fingers tapping nervously along his bicep. Ransom can't help but track the movement, and if his eyes linger on the shifting muscles, well. He’s only human, and it’s a nice bicep.

“Yeah, that would be strange, but you’re not a random guy. Besides, you dropped in on Hazeapalooza and it was fun, right?” Ransom says. He shifts his weight, moving to the side so he's not blocking the threshold.

Adam worries his bottom lip with his teeth. It's cute, even though he's bigger, broader, and more bearded than Ransom will ever be. “Yeah, I’m just - "

Ransom cuts him off. “Seriously, bro, if you don’t come eat with us they’ll be disappointed.” It's true - Adam's almost a mythic figure, an actual professional hockey player who's suddenly dropped into their lives. Ransom thinks they don't know the half of it. "Besides," he continues, waving Adam in. "Brunch is like, the least formal and most chill meal. Plus, Bitty made cinnamon rolls."

“Fine, but only because I have to drop off tape.” Adam sounds resigned at best but Ransom knows he’ll feel more comfortable after he sees how much they all like having him around.

When Ransom and Holster step into the kitchen they're greeted with a chorus of _good mornings_ and one _goddamn, look at these beauts_. Ransom pushes Holster towards the seat next to Lardo and drops into the one right next to him. Separate conversations crop up as Jack asks him about his test schedule and he hears Lardo quietly talking to Holster about his weekend on his other side. Bitty and Shitty are engaged in a contest to see who can create the most aesthetically pleasing frosting pattern over their cinnamon roll.

It's a gentle chaos. They talk with their mouths full and spill their coffee but soon everyone's leaning back in their chairs, filled with dough, sugar, and spices.

Ransom's just taken a picture of Bitty's perfect cinnamon roll, because he always wins the food styling contests, and he's adjusting the filter levels when Jack pipes up beside him. "Which, uh, thing are you putting that on? Instergram? Or is that the one hundred word limit thing?" Jack asks, mouth set in a confused frown. Shitty rolls his eyes fondly and Lardo smiles down at her coffee, but Adam and Bitty both look over at Jack in shock. Bitty begins a long, rambling tangent about the virtues of Twitter when a deeper voice cuts through.

"You don't know what Instagram is?" Adam asks in horrified amazement. The team groans, having already been down this path a thousand times. "Jack, _Betty White_ has an Instagram."

Jack blinks. "Who's that? Does she go here?" He turns to Ransom, which makes sense given that he's the one charged with reminding Jack of who he knows and doesn't know. Ransom, though, is distracted by the series of blink and you miss it expressions flittering over Adam's face. There's the shock, of course, then the wonderment that comes when he’s forced to contemplate just how much pop culture Jack doesn't know, then Adam even looks angry for a hot second. He opens his mouth and closes it several times, trying to make sense of the situation he's found himself in. Ransom pats him on the back; they've all been there.

"I need to sit down." Holster finally says.

"You're already sitting." Jack helpfully points out in his cat-got-the-cream chirping voice. Holster levels him with a flat look, one Ransom's seen him shoot at reporters asking stupid questions during post-game interviews.  
  
" _I need to sit again_ , Zimmermann." Holster snaps, but there's a lightness to it. It's a nuanced annoyance, with a little bit of fondness and a whole lot of snark. Ransom loves it. Shitty cuts in with an anecdote about how Jack thought Kim Kardashian was one of the cheerleaders their freshman year. Ransom watches Holster's expressions shift in bursts of disbelief and laughter. He's one of them now.

* * *

 

"I'm fucked, I'm fucked, I'm so fucking fucked!"

The cry is slightly muffled by the thin walls of the Haus, but Adam can still make out every desperate syllable from his spot at the kitchen table. He and Jack have been going over tape for the last hour, occasionally debating drills and conditioning exercises but Justin's cry has him staring up at the ceiling in concern. Jack, though, still has his eyes trained on the screen of his laptop, and Adam knows he's not the most personable guy but he hadn't expected him to be that cold. Jack's nonchalance is the only reason Adam hasn't bolted out of his chair and scrambled up the stairs, bad knee be damned.

"Are you gonna?" He asks, nodding his head in the general direction of the stairs. They're the only ones in the house besides Justin and whatever's going on sounds like it's serious.

Jack just shakes his head, finally tearing his eyes away from the footage of Bitty's assist at their last home game. "No, he doesn't like anyone to see him when he studies. I tried, during his freshman year, but having someone there makes him more anxious."

_"I'm not freaked out, I'm anxious, I have anxiety."_

Justin's words from their discussion after the first practice of the preseason ring in Adam's ears and while he believes that Jack knows best, leaving Justin alone doesn't sit well with him as they keep talking. He's distracted, constantly glancing back and forth between the doorway and the screen until Jack closes his laptop with a sigh.

"Class," he explains succinctly, giving Adam a quick farewell nod, and then he's out the door. Adam's alone in the Haus and he can't help himself from going to check on his...what word should he use? They've decided to be friends when no one's around, and as Adam walks through the Haus it's painfully clear they're alone. He takes his time on the steps, following through on the motions like his physical therapist told him to, and to his surprise he's able to clear the first floor with no pain at all. He knocks on the attic door, a warning, before opening it slowly. He knows it's probably creepy, hearing the door creak open and then uneven footsteps slowly coming up the stairs, but he can't rush this.

When he arrives at the top of the steps he thinks that Justin has left. There's no sign of him but his backpack is on the bed and there are books strewn across the floor, and just when Adam's about to go back downstairs he catches a flash of movement from under the desk. He rounds the corner and sure enough, all six feet and two inches of Justin's muscular frame is curled up under his desk. His flexibility is impressive but frankly worrying because that can't be comfortable for him, and he's not moving at all besides the shivers that jolt through his body intermittently. Holster gently raps his knuckles on the top of the desk, like he's knocking on a door, and Justin doesn't acknowledge him at all.

Adam has no fucking clue what to do. Justin clearly doesn't want to be touched or bothered, but Adam can't leave him here alone. Slowly, carefully, he eases himself down until he's sitting across from Justin.

"Hey, uh, there isn't enough room in the living room to do my stretches, so I'm just going to do them here if that's all right?" Justin doesn't speak but his eyes flicker over and Adam takes that as a good sign. He slowly works through all of his floor stretches, trying to take up as much time as possible. His excuse is flimsy, but every time he glances under the desk Justin's shoulders seems a little less tense, and by the time Adam has finished he's spread out as much as he can in the tiny space.

"You should do the figure four stretch." Justin says suddenly. His voice is tight and strained but at least he's speaking. Adam nods and moves into the familiar position. It looks strange and it feels less than comfortable but when he relaxes back and sits normally he actually feels pretty good.

"Thanks, man." Adam stretches his legs out in front of him, carefully reaching forward to touch his toes now that his quads are loose.

Justin rolls out from under the desk and lays down, spreading out for the first time in God knows how long. Adam hesitates for a moment, then lays down next to him, staring up at the wooden ceiling.  

"I have an anatomy test tomorrow. I'm...Not great with tests." Justin says, voice hoarse. When Adam looks over his brows are knitted together, his full lips pulled down in a pained frown. His muscles must be aching from the stretch after being so tense.

Adam bites his lip, then fills the silence. "I, uh. I heard you yelling." He admits, eyes tracing over Justin's pinched profile.

Justin doesn't seem surprised. "What did I say?" He asks softly, resigned.

"You just said you were fucked? Like a lot?" Adam winces, hating how his voice rises in an unsure question. The last time he'd seen Justin so stressed he'd instinctively known what to do, what to say. Now, though, with their strange history and weight of the pull he feels towards the other man, he's not sure how to help.

Justin sighs, covering his face with his hands. "Yeah, that sounds like me." He sounds embarrassed and exhausted. Adam moves over in small, minuscule stages, shifting until their arms are pressed together. Justin's hands fall to his sides, and Adam has to fight the urge to lace their fingers together. Justin's quiet for a long moment before he speaks again. "It's hard to find a place to study. I don't like to be by myself because, well." Justin waves his hand in the vague direction of the desk. "But I don't like to be in public because," he waves at the desk again. "The library's too quiet, the kitchen's too distracting - plus I'll get fat from all the pie I'll eat - and I can't go to a coffee shop if I'm going to yell about getting fucked."

"Come study at my place." The words are out of his mouth before his better judgement can kick in. Justin's looking over at him in surprise, which yeah, makes sense given how strict he's been, but he can't bear the thought of Justin spending another minute alone under his tiny desk. "I mean it."

"I don't know -"

"it's perfect. You won't be by yourself but you won't be in public, my neighbors are loud as fuck so there's always background noise, I won't distract you because I'll be studying too and I can't cook for shit so there's not going to be anything to eat, anyway." Adam explains, addressing each of Justin's concerns one by one. The solution is so clear to him now.

"What about the yelling? Won't it weird your neighbors out?" Justin asks, sitting up. Adam sits up, too, turning to face  him. His leg is still stuck out awkwardly to the side and Justin's curled up on his knees, but he looks thoughtful instead of terrified, and Adam can see that he's almost convinced him.

"They hear weirder shit when I binge watch The Real Housewives." Adam shrugs, nonchalant. It's not a lie or an exaggeration of any kind. Those ladies are in some _shit_.

"What about..." Justin vaguely gestures between them. It's astonishing how the slightest flick of his wrist can encapsulate all that's been left unsaid.

Adam shrugs, about to mumble an excuse about how coaches are supposed to help student athletes thrive before deciding against it. This isn't for Oluransi, #11, the core of his defensive line. This is for Justin, his friend. _It's good for you to be close to them_ , Murray had said. "Offer stands. You have my number - just text when you need a place to study." He heaves himself up and offers Justin a hand, waving it in his face until he takes it and pulls himself up. "Seriously, anytime."

"Thanks." Justin says, almost shy. Adam's suddenly aware that they're still holding hands, and he gently pulls his away. "So..." Justin continues, expression shifting into a sly grin. "Like, how often do you watch The Real Housewives?"

* * *

Four days later Ransom finds himself tucked under the kitchen table at two thirty in the morning, eating a hot pocket he'd dug out from the very back of the freezer. Every once in awhile the ceiling creaks; Bitty's still awake and if Ransom had any sense at all he'd go upstairs and sit on the clean floor of Bitty's nice smelling room but instead he lingers beneath the table, sitting directly on the sticky patch that apparently was formed during a kegster Johnson's sophomore year. He takes another bite of the hot pocket. It's still cool in the middle but he eats it anyway, unable to loosen the grip he has on the table leg.

It's a low point, that's for damn sure, and midterms aren't for another three weeks. He's not going to make it to second semester if he keeps this up. Justin's told himself that he needs to find a healthy way of dealing with his _thing_ a million times, but now, tonight, with the top of his head pressed against the grimy bottom of the kitchen table and chilly marinara sauce coating his fingertips, Justin knows he has to make a change. Luckily, Adam's already given him an opportunity, one he knows now he shouldn't, should, no, shouldn't, wait, should pass up. Justin sighs; it's time to make a list.

He forces himself up to wash the sauce off his hands at the kitchen sink, wincing when his shorts stick to the linoleum floor. Justin immediately runs up to the attic to take them off. After he brushes the tomato aftertaste away and washes his face he curls up in bed with his phone and makes a new note. It's painfully clear he has to do something, but is taking Adam up on his offer the right thing?

PROS:

  * I like him



He immediately cuts and copies it to the CONS column he creates below. He tries again.

PROS:

  * he knows how to help (citation: A- on anatomy test)
  * my GPA will thank me (i luv u bb)
  * no more screaming in the library (everyone wins)
  * I'll survive fall semester (probably)



CONS:

  * I like him (fuck)
  * I'm not allowed to like him (double fuck)
  * this will make me like him more (triple combo fuck)



He stares down at his list, and the data speaks for itself. Four pros to three cons? The Pros have it. He closes the note and texts Adam.

 **Me:** can i study at ur place 2morrow after practice

He winces when he sees the timestamp. Adam doesn't reply before he falls asleep, but when he wakes up the next morning he finds a new message (and seventy seven Instagram notifications, but his outfit of the day yesterday was stellar and he regrets nothing).

 **Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** Sure, meet me by my car after.

Hours later, freshly showered after a long practice, Justin finds himself loitering in the parking lot next to Adam's car as he waits for the other man to emerge. He worries the strap of his backpack between his fingers, twisting the fabric into tight rolls only to release it and begin again.

"How'd you know which car is mine?" Asks a deep voice just behind his shoulder. When he turns Adam's standing on the other side of the car, a small smile on his face. He looks so good when he smiles.

Justin shrugs, matching Adam's expression. "Buffalo plates," he explains, opening the passenger side door to climb in. Adam's apartment isn't far from campus, and they pull in front of his building in minutes. It's a classic Samwell apartment building, one of the many renovated town homes dotted around campus.

Adam's on the first floor, and within moments Justin's in his space. There's painted over crown molding and the original hardwood floors creak beneath his feet. It somehow seems cozy and sparse at the same time. There's a soft looking couch with blankets and a sweatshirt thrown over the back but just behind it is a mostly empty bookshelf. He recognizes some of the books - they're all by sitcom writers or SNL celebrities - and there's pile of pucks haphazardly stacked on the top shelf. He can't make out the writing scrawled along the white tape that's wrapped around the edges but he instantly recognizes them as Adam's game mementos. The desk on the opposite wall is completely devoid of clutter, as is the coffee table. Meanwhile, the kitchen counters are crowded from daily use - a box of teabags is still open on the counter next to an honest to God kettle and there are dishes in the sink. It's not that Adam's neat, Justin realizes. He just doesn't have many possessions. Adam gives him a quick tour that ends with him clearing a stack of mail and some assorted cups from the kitchen table as Justin sinks into one of the chairs and pulls out his textbook.

When he finally finishes the problem set an hour and a half later, Adam's nowhere to be found. The apartment is quiet but for the occasional creaking of Adam's upstairs neighbors moving around and the soft music that's wafting over from Adam's open laptop, still positioned across from him. There's an empty bottle of water by his elbow he doesn't remember drinking, but when he swallows his throat isn't as dry as it usually is after a study session. He throws it in the recycling bin and stands, wincing when the movement tugs on his sore muscles. Adam had put the defensemen through the ringer that afternoon, pushing them through drill after drill with no remorse. It had been a relief, actually, to focus on anything besides the stress of school. He'd managed to sweat out the last bit of tension clinging to his back and neck and by the time practice had finished he'd felt almost like he hadn't cowered under a table for the better part of an hour the night before.

Justin wanders through the apartment, pausing to glance at the stack of pucks on the bookshelf. #4, 1ST NHL GOAL, DETROIT, one reads. Justin turns away, feeling like he's intruding on some private part of Adam's life even though he’s seen the goal footage before. He turns down the hall, searching for the bathroom. Adam had said it was at the end of the hall to the right? Left? He'd been on the cusp of Study Mode during the tour earlier and hadn't been paying that much attention. Justin picks one of the doors and turns the knob, brow furrowing in confusion when he steps inside.

It's not a bathroom, that's for sure. It's probably meant to be an office or second bedroom, but it's clear that Adam's just using it for storage. A piano peeks out from the darkest shadows at the back of the room. There are cardboard boxes and large plastic containers everywhere, a thin layer of dust covering them. Only one box is open, and Justin can see a pop of Schooners blue and green peeking through the brown flaps of the box.

It's none of his business. Adam's lived here four months and still hasn't unpacked, but it's none of his business. Justin slips back into the hall and tries the other door, relieved to find the bathroom on the other side. He doesn't intentionally snoop, but he can't help but notice the frankly ridiculous amount of tooth-care products Adam has - he's got three different widths of floss and at least four brands of toothpaste.  
The kettle, the piano, the floss. Justin’s gotten to know more about Adam in the past two hours than he had in years of post game interviews and he desperately wants to know more.

When Justin steps back into the hall he hears the sound of the front door opening and closing. Plastic bags rustle as the lock turns, and when he arrives back in the open living room Adam's there with carryout.

"Hey, sorry, I didn't think you'd mind if I left, especially since I brought food." He explains sheepishly, holding up the plastic bags like an offering.

"Nah, it's cool. I'm fucking starving because someone made me do a bag skate at practice today." Ransom says with mock annoyance, already beginning to clear the table.

Adam laughs and Justin can't help joining in. "Your coach sounds like a dick. Reminds me of my water aerobics instructor." He chirps. Justin rolls his eyes. He's not _that_ bad. He just knows what Adam is capable of.

"Really?" Justin asks, raising an eyebrow. He's smiling, though, so it probably isn't as effective as it should be. Adam just nods and sets the bags on the table.

"Definitely. This guy doesn't let me get away with anything." He says, handing Justin a container of fried rice. They trade chirps as they eventually migrate to the couch with beer and their food, carefully positioned on opposite ends as they watch the second half of a basketball game. Justin lingers until the final buzzer sounds and he officially doesn't have an excuse to stay any longer.

Justin slings his backpack over his shoulder and follows Adam to the door, taking one step outside before turning around.  He's unsure of how to say goodbye. For the first time that evening Justin feels like he's on a date. He wants to step back inside and kiss the taste of beer off Adam's lips - it's not a new feeling, certainly, but the past few hours hadn't felt like a date. Studying, greasy takeout, and watching basketball is what friends do, but _this_ , the way they're looking at each other, the pull he feels towards Adam, this feels like a date.

"Keep your teammates out of trouble this weekend." Adam's leaning against the door frame, white t-shirt stretched over his broad chest.

"I always do." Justin shoots back.

Adam laughs, rich and deep. "That's a lie."

"Yeah." Justin shrugs, smiling ruefully. He adjusts the strap on his backpack that's twisted around, tugging on it idly. Adam reaches out, slipping his fingers under the fabric to straighten it out for him.

"Get back safe, Ransom." He says fondly. It's the first time Holster's used his nickname unprompted, when it's just them. Ransom beams up at him, something warm and bright unfurling in his chest.

“I will, Holster.” Ransom says. He thinks back to his CONS list. _This will make me like him more_ , he'd written. As he walks back to the Haus he adds it to the PROS column.

* * *

 

Justin straps on his gear with tight, explosive movements, tugging the synthetic material with far more force than necessary. He’s been in a foul mood all day, ever since Adam stood him up for their regular meeting before water aerobics. He’d been worried sick when Adam hadn’t shown up to class, so distracted that he’d almost ended the routine before the cool-down stretches in his haste to find his friend. He’d even run over to Adam’s apartment and knocked on the door, lingering until the lost possible moment before he had to rush back to campus for class. He’d arrived late anyway, and to top it all off he’d received a team-wide e-mail from Adam containing the week’s practice schedule. An e-mail's not a bad thing, in and of itself, but if Adam had the time and resources to send an e-mail then he had the time and resources to text Justin and let him know he's okay.

He slams his helmet on and makes his way to the rink, letting his stick clang against the equipment and detritus left in the halls by his teammates. Adam's already on the ice, talking to Jack before practice begins, but Justin bursts onto the ice and does a few quick laps, trying to burn off his anger before he has to speak to Adam in front of his teammates. Everyone knows they get along - Ransom is slowly becoming _RansomandHolster_ \- but he won't be able to explain why he's so angry.

Luckily, Justin doesn't have to speak to Adam until the second hour of practice when the lines have separated. He's standing next to Adam, watching Nursey and Dex do drills with Ollie and Wicks when he breaks.

“You didn’t come this morning.” Justin says suddenly. It's the first thing he's said to Adam all day, and the words are tight and angry.

Adam doesn't react. He stands still with his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking out over the team as they skate. “I know.” He finally says, but he doesn't look away.

Justin squeezes his stick tightly. “I went to your apartment.” He turns and Adam finally glances over at him, a quick flicker of blue before he turns his gaze back on the other defensemen.

He takes a deep breath. Justin waits for him to speak, mouth set in a grim line. “I know.” Adam exhales, letting out the breath in a quick huff.

Something boils in Justin's gut. It's too vulnerable to be anger and burns too hot to be anxiety and he realizes it's disappointment and hurt melted together in a sticky, bubbling mess. When he was knocking on Adam's door, worried sick that he'd fallen in the shower, Adam had been inside waiting for him to leave. Adam had let him wait, Adam hadn't let him in, and Adam doesn't seem to care about either of those things. “Then why didn’t you let me in?” Justin whispers harshly, demanding an answer. They don't have much time but Justin doesn't know when they'll speak again, since Adam's apparently content with abandoning him.

A muscle in Adam's jaw twitches; he must be grinding his teeth. Good. “I couldn’t.” He ducks his head, offering no explanation.

Justin scoffs. “But you could take the time to send us a redundant fucking e-mail? C’mon, Adam.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s the softest Adam’s voice has ever been, the syllables so timid and tumultuous Justin can barely hear the words over the din of practice. When he glances over Adam’s staring down at the ice and for the first time that morning Justin actually looks at him. His beard is longer, bushier, unkempt. There are bags big enough to carry equipment in under his eyes, and when he adjusts his baseball cap Justin can see that his hair is unwashed and greasy. _I couldn’t._ It’s obvious he’s not doing well, now that Justin is finally looking, and he doesn’t understand how everyone around them is doing practice as usual when Adam’s so clearly in pain. He doesn't understand how _he_ hadn't seen it and he swallows down the guilt before swinging his stick to gently bump it against Adam’s shoe. The disappointment and hurt cool quickly, transforming into sharp worry.

“Next time, text me.” He says, giving Adam a small smile when he looks up in surprise. “Not just that you won’t be there, but so I can help. I’ll sit outside your door and study until you can let me in.” He’d through it would at least make Adam smile, but he simply nods, apparently resigned to more days just like this one.

_I couldn’t._

The words stay with him after he skates away for drills and conditioning, as he showers and changes after practice, when he’s sitting in his Public Health class hours later. He racks his memory, trying to figure out exactly when Adam had taken a turn. Two weeks ago he’d had Justin in hysterics before class with his impersonation of Linda. On the bus during their last roadie he’d watched Adam’s shoulders shake as he laughed quietly at an episode of Parks and Rec. Before practice last week Adam had mentioned going into Boston and planned on seeing where an episode of 30 Rock had been filmed before his appointment with a specialist.

The realization jolts him awake, out of the daze his professors’ droning voice always sends him into. The appointment must not have gone well and now Adam’s depressed because of it. It makes total sense and now he knows exactly what to do. He opens Excel and creates a new workbook: _Adam’s Recovery and Road to Eventual Happiness Masterplan_.

He can already fill in some of the categories: Frog Kick Mobility, sitcoms re-watched, Aerobic Endurance, Stride on Ice Speed, but he knows he’ll have to ask Adam directly about everything else. He feels confident in his progress after class, and it’s pure luck that has him bumping into his friend in front of Founders later that afternoon.

“Hey!” His voice sounds weird, too cheery, but Adam doesn’t seem to notice. He barely even looks up, actually, his hat still pulled down over his eyes.

“Hey,” Adam echoes, sounding absolutely exhausted. He manages to give Justin a small smile, but it comes off as more of a half-grimace. Justin can’t ask him directly about how he is when he’s clearly doing so poorly.

Justin bumps their shoulders together gently, making sure he doesn’t actually hit Adam too hard. He sways anyway, off balance until Justin reaches out to steady him. Adam doesn't react. “I’m going to Annie’s; wanna come?” Adam looks like he’s about to protest, but Justin takes a few steps ahead of him to block his path. “I didn’t get to see you this morning.”

“I don’t know why you’d want to see me.” Justin can barely hear the mumbled string of syllables but he stands his ground.

“Dude, _Holster,_ please. I’ll even buy your gross leaf water.” He bargains. Using Adam’s nickname is a gamble. It usually makes him duck his head, embarrassed, but Justin always manages to catch exactly when his eyes light up. Sometimes, though, it sends him backpedalling back into the carefully constructed professional zone he’s set up for himself. Today, it makes Adam’s shoulders droop as he gives in. It's worse than the backpedalling.

“Fine.” Adam sighs in agreement. Justin moves and they walk side by side to Annie’s, the backs of their hands brushing occasionally. He wonders what would be so bad about taking Adam’s hand. Statistically speaking, there are very low odds of any negative consequences. Hall and Murray are both off campus and the team isn’t anywhere in sight. It’s all Justin can think about when they walk into Annie’s and when Adam holds the door for him. They're standing in line, pressed together in the small shop, when Justin takes a chance. He trains his eyes on Adam’s face and carefully laces their fingers together.

Adam doesn’t react, at first, but after a long moment he squeezes his eyes shut, inhaling shakily, and tightens his grip on Justin’s hand. His fingertips are calloused but his palm is broad and the heat from his fingers seeps into Justin’s. They wait in line for a long time, their coats and bags hiding their clasped hands, saying nothing. Adam only lets go after they’ve ordered and paid, releasing Justin’s hand just before he turns away to find a table. He selects one in the corner and has one leg propped on an extra chair by the time Justin arrives with their drinks.

“Thanks,” Adam says, smiling for the first time that day. It's small, just the slightest curve of Adam's lips, but it's real. Justin drops his bag into the chair across from him and settles beside him, his knees brushing against Adam’s good leg under the table. It feels intimate and he wants to take Adam’s hand again but he knows it’s an objectively bad idea. He hadn't calculated the consequences of holding hands two separate times.

“Anytime,” he says, and means it. They sip their drinks in silence before he leans in and breaks it. “So how was Boston? Did you see where Tina Fey yelled at a tour guide?” Adam chuckles, low and throaty, and it’s the best thing Justin’s heard all day (and he found out he got a 94% on a test, so).

“Tracy Morgan, and yeah, I did. I even got to see Vichy - ” He cuts himself off with a laugh when he sees Justin’s confused expression. “Antoine Kerlovich, he played with me in Seattle but was traded to the Bruins right before the deadline last season.” Adam clarifies, and the new data makes Justin’s head spin. Maybe it wasn’t the appointment at all, but seeing an old friend? Being confronted with someone who still has what he’d lost? Before his train of thought can spiral too far, Adam’s leaning back in his chair with a soft smile ghosting over his lips. “It was good to see him. He’s trying to get me to visit him in St. Petersburg when he goes home, because his ‘grandmama makes best food, Holtzy, you like and eat and get big and strong like me.’” He’s actually grinning when he slips into the dramatic Russian accent, and Justin laughs with him, knowing that Adam’s got at least six inches and forty pounds on his former teammate. He quickly reverts back to his original hypothesis - visiting Kerlovich clearly put Adam in a better mood, and Justin can’t keep from asking his next question.

“And the specialist? Good news?” Adam’s face twists, and Justin’s about to call the whole thing off before he replies.

“Yeah, actually.” Adam picks at the lid of his cup, fidgeting with the plastic rim. His big hands dwarf the cardboard container but his movements are delicate and contained.

“Yeah?” Justin echoes. That's the last thing he expected to hear. The data doesn't support his hypothesis at all but the conclusion is the same: Adam is hurting, and Justin's going to fix it.

“I’m, uh, doing really well. I have above average mobility. I'll even be able to skate as soon as my physical therapist clears me.” Although Holster’s saying good things, his face has fallen yet again. Justin wants to take his hand again, to pull him in and hold him tight enough to banish that expression from his features forever, but they’re in public and not even _together_ and all he can do lean in and hope his presence is somewhat comforting.

“You don’t look like a guy with above average mobility.” He says slowly. Adam looks up at him in surprise, like he can't believe someone's noticed he's not himself. Justin aches because it's not entirely unfounded; he'd only realized earlier that morning when Adam's been back from Boston for at least four days. He spends so much of his time making sure that he doesn't stare at Adam that he'd missed the signs right in front of his face.

“I feel like shit, Justin. I’m in pain, I can’t do any of the things I used to do and I’m supposed to think I’m doing great? This isn’t what great is supposed to feel like.” Adam's voice his hollow, punched-out and exhausted. His shoulders are drooping towards the table and someone as large as he is shouldn't look fragile, but he does.

“It’s going to get better.” Justin says weakly.

Adam gives him a flat look, too tired to be fully annoyed with his platitude. “Is it? No matter what I do or how much I improve I’m never going to get back to where I was. I’m going to plateau at some point and it’ll be all downhill from there."

Justin doesn’t know what to say. There isn’t a formula for this, a professor didn’t tell him that he’d have to know what to do in this situation. He can’t ask Excel what to say to make his friend feel better. He glances around the room - no one he knows is there, and everyone from the team is usually in class right now - and cups his hand over Adam’s. Adam squeezes his eyes shut, just like before, but this time he pulls his hand away. He stands, moving faster than Justin’s ever seen him.

“I have to go.” Adam takes his tea and weaves through the tables. It takes Justin a second to process and then he’s up, grabbing his coffee as he follows as quickly as he can without accidentally knocking someone over. He catches up to Adam in seconds and takes him by the shoulder. Adam tries to shrug him off half-heartedly but Justin just tightens his grip. They're alone in the quad, the space empty as usual during popular class times. They square off, both holding their Annie's cups, mouths set in thin lines.

“I can’t let you help me with this.” Adam's broad shoulders are hunched, drawn inward. Justin wants to push them back into place, wants to feel his muscles bunch and jump under his hands, wants the warmth of Adam's skin to seep through his clothes and onto his palms and then he wants to _shake some sense_ into this asshole.

Justin takes a step to close the gap between them, then another when Adam automatically moves backwards. “You can’t stop me.” He says, and it sounds menacing as fuck but he's just trying to help.

Adam blinks, taken aback. “What?” He asks, brows narrowing. Justin advances again, determined to make Adam understand that he's not going to back down easily.

“How are you going to stop me? I told you this morning. If you don’t let me in, I’ll wait. I’ll make sure you go to water aerobics. I’ll keep track of your workouts and we’ll make sure you get _better_. I’ll turn the full force of my anxiety fueled organizational skills on you, dude. I’ll fucking do it.” He punctuates the words by jabbing his finger into Adam's chest, trying not to think about the hard muscle he finds there.

“Justin,” Adam says, a warning. He bats Justin's hand away.

“You said we were friends. This is how I treat my friends.” Justin's voice breaks but he doesn't turn away. He holds Adam gaze and catches the motion of his hands jerking towards him, like Adam wants to reach out but decides against it at the last minute. He makes the decision for the both of them, stretching out his arm until his hand settles on Adam's chest. Adam doesn't move. Justin takes a small step forward and speaks into the hushed space between them.

“I’m going to help because I’ll go crazy if I don’t. I’ll fucking lose it. I need _this_ and you need _me_ and we both need _us_ .” Justin knows he sounds desperate, but he can't bring himself to care. He knows they look strange, huddled together in the quad, but he can't bring himself to care about that, either. He cares about Adam, he realizes, the thought crystallizing with startling clarity. He's been dealing with his crush for months now and Adam's somehow become the closest friend he's ever had, but he hadn't understood the depth of his feelings until this second. It's not a crush on his favorite player anymore; it's something new, something small and little bit terrifying and wonderful and _real_ and he can't do a fucking thing about it.

Adam's gazing down at him, looking more worn than Justin's ever seen him. Justin's hand rises and falls as Adam takes a deep breath and slowly lets it go. “There can’t be an us, not when I want to coach and you want to play. It's not just that I could get fired, Justin." At the sound of his name Justin's hand closes around the fabric of Adam's pullover, tightening into a fist. Their eyes are still locked but Adam raises his hand and brushes his fingers over the delicate tendons and sinews in Justin's wrist. His fingers are still warm despite the fall chill and Justin loosens his grip, slumping forward. "I can’t," Adam continues, slipping his hand under Justin's to twine their fingers together again. "I can't stand the thought of someone thinking that you’re first line because of how I feel about you. I don’t want your accomplishments to be fucked up because I’m involved, and I - we both need this team. I'm not going to let someone take hockey away from you."

It's not just about the sport, Justin knows. It's not the skates or the stick or even the rink. It's the team, the friendships, the community that they both would be lost without. Justin's had Samwell Men's Hockey for years but Adam's only recently found them, and he can't stomach the thought of Adam losing them so quickly. They both need the team.

Justin sucks in a breath; the New England fall air is cool in his lungs. It's comforting, and it would feel like home if the air carried a sharper chill. “Whatever you’re doing, Adam, it’s not working. Can you at least think about it?” He asks softly, and Adam ducks his head. They're so close, now, foreheads almost touching now that the two inches separating them have vanished.

“I’ll think about it.” Adam says, and Justin's shoulders fall slack in relief. It’s not a yes but it’s not a no and that’s all Justin needs.

“All right.” He says, and Adam carefully untangles their fingers before turning to walk away. Justin watches him walk away, back straight against the strong wind, steps sure even on the wet grass. The distance between them multiplies again and again but Justin's chest swells with hope.

He'll think about it.

* * *

It's Friday afternoon and Adam's spent most of the day in a thick fog. He'd had an appointment with his physical therapist that morning, and he'd heard the news he'd been waiting for since June: he can finally skate again.

Instead of being relieved he'd been terrified and he'd wandered back to his apartment in a daze that had taken him hours to shake off. Now, though, he has to face the task he's been putting off since he first moved to Samwell. He has an hour booked at Faber tomorrow morning but he doesn't know where his skates are, other than the fact that they're somewhere in the boxes he hasn't been able to face yet.

Adam takes a fortifying breath and opens the door, gripping the handle far tighter than necessary. The room is brighter than he'd expected, light streaming in from the windows across from him. It's a nice room; he should really use it for more than procrastination. Adam leaves the door open behind him - it feels important to have an escape route - and wanders over to the only open box.

He'd attempted to unpack everything once he'd graduated to walking without a cane a few weeks after he'd moved in but one look at the familiar jersey carefully folded at the top of the first box he'd opened had sent him reeling. He'd gone straight to bed, only leaving a day and half later to drag himself to a physical therapy appointment.

Today, he's going to do everything he can to prevent that same outcome. He has the Hairspray soundtrack playing from his laptop, a ten hour playlist of his favorite episodes of various tv shows queued up just in case, and he knows for a fact his mother is going to call him tomorrow morning in case he winds up in bed for another few days. All he has to do is find the box with his skates. Simple enough.

Three hours later Adam's sprawled on the hardwood floors, plastic lids and balls of clear packing tape strewn around him. The majority of the boxes have been opened, the contents piled around his prone form. He's watching Tracy Jordan describe his hilariously traumatic past for the second time in a row, hoping that watching it again will be the kick in the ass he needs to at least sit up. His phone has been buzzing consistently for the past thirty minutes but rolling over to grab it seems like a gargantuan task, one he's not prepared to face anytime soon.

"I once saw a baby give another baby a tattoo," He quotes, still tracking along with the episode even though his eyes are closed. He lays there, quoting the rest of the episode on and off until there's a sudden banging sound coming from the other side of his apartment. The shock of the sudden sound is enough to jolt him into a sitting position. It's the door, he realizes suddenly, and it's only the mental image of Justin standing on the other side that pulls him to his feet.

The knocking continues as he drags himself down the hall, breaking into familiar rhythmic bursts by the time he reaches the living room. When he finally reaches the door he's had to suffer through four shave-and-a-haircuts but he manages to pull the door open before another can begin. He steps back in surprise when he sees who's on the other side of the door.

Beth's drawn up to her full height of five feet and four inches and she's got a cardboard coffee cup in each hand. There's a red spot on her forehead, and Adam realizes she'd been literally banging her head against the door instead of knocking with her hand. She glares up at him as she sweeps into the apartment, brushing past him easily. Beth hands him the two cups and toes off her shoes and by the time he realizes what he's holding she's on the other side of the room.

"What do I always say, Adam?" She asks, voice brusque. Beth walks around his apartment, inspecting each and every item in his living room. Adam lingers by the open door, trying to make sense of what's going on.

"Gosh, Tabitha looks great today?" He tries.

"Not that, the other thing." She stop in front of his bookshelf, running her fingertips over the titles to examine them quickly. She pulls one book out, then another, and the next thing Adam knows she's rearranging the titles by subject and author. Adam uses his shoulder to close the door as he thinks.

"Do no harm, but take no shit?" He says before setting the cups down on his kitchen table. Beth nods and plucks his copy of _Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (and Other Concerns)_ from the shelf, flipping through the pages idly before tucking it into her purse.

"There it is. This is me taking no shit." She points at him with one hand, picking up one of his game pucks in the other. Beth examines it for a moment before setting it back, and quickly arranges the rest of the pucks into a stacked pyramid.

"Did someone give you shit?" Adam asks, no closer to making heads or tails of Beth's cryptic hints as he watches her arrange his memories into a more aesthetically pleasing form.

"You did. You stood me up!" Beth points at him and he takes a step back, worried for his safety despite the fact that she's sixty three and fifteen feet away from him.

"Beth, we didn't have plans to meet today," He says slowly, worried for the first time that she's misplaced some information. She turns to face him, hands on her hips.

"Don't you dare use that 'I'm talking to an old lady' voice on me, Birkholtz." She snaps, and crosses the room much faster than he'd ever thought possible. Water aerobics is seriously working for her. "I'm sixty three years younger than you'll ever be. You stood me up _emotionally_ , and I will not have it."

"I'm really, really lost, and I'm having the shittiest day, so can you please explain everything from the beginning? Slowly?" He pleads, sinking into Justin's chair. Well - the chair he always uses when he comes over to study. It's just a chair.

Beth eyes him warily. "I saw you and Justin on the quad yesterday. They occasionally let the librarians leave the library, you know." His face falls and he gestures to the seat across from him, and takes a long sip of his tea in preparation.

The entire story pours out of him. He tells her everything, from seeing Justin at the first practice of the year to trying to find his skates earlier that morning, months of tension and pining and awkwardness and belonging all spilling out in a long, unruly narrative. He tries to explain gaining a team and what that means to him and spends far, far too much time describing Justin's first goal of the season but he manages to tell her everything before he finishes his cup of tea. It's cold by the time he takes his last sip and he drops the cup down on the table with a sigh, slouching in his chair. Beth's been mostly silent, aside from appropriate laughter or oohing and ahhing, and she's had both her hands wrapped around his since he explained Hazeapalooza.

"Here's what we're going to do," Beth says, giving his hand a firm squeeze. "We're going to hug for a very, very long time. Then I'm going to find your skates and you're going to ask Justin to help you when you practice tomorrow. It's okay to let him help you." Adam opens his mouth to protest, mostly out of habit, but she raises one unimpressed eyebrow and he stops in his tracks.

"I'll find my phone." He agrees, and when they stand he has to hunch over so her arms can wrap around his shoulders but she rubs his back and holds him tight and he feels better than he has in days.

* * *

Justin's in the dining hall when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He digs for it with one hand, the other occupied with a chicken tender, expecting a text from Bitty about Betsy's slow decline or a snap from Wicky but his eyebrows raise in surprise when he sees the familiar string of emojis. He drops the tender and wipes the grease off his fingers before unlocking his phone.

 **Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** I need a water aerobics tutor but I don't have Tabitha's number. Know anyone who can help?  
**Me:** imight  
**Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** Cool, thanks.  
**Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** P.S. It's technically on ice instead of in water. But they're the same thing because #science.  
**Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** P.P.S. It's also not so much "aerobics" as "skating" but whatever.  
**Me:** ur cleared to skate??  
**Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** Yeah.

Justin's about to respond when the little ellipses pops up; Adam's typing. He waits but the three little dots flash up at him, appearing and disappearing in their coded cycle for what feels like hours until -

 **Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** Will you help me?  
**Me:** of course  
**Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:** Faber, 8:30, tomorrow morning.   
**Me:** see u then  
**Me:** u do kno that ice and water have differences tho right. they have different molecular structures and shit  
**Adam [Honey Pot Emoji][Arm Emoji][Sparkle Emoji]:**  ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
**Me:** why are u like this

They text on and off throughout the rest of the evening. Justin's not sure why Adam's suddenly onboard but he's not going to fight it. He's watched Adam's carefully constructed professional boundaries come down in stages and at this pace, maybe someday soon they'll -

Justin shakes the thought away. Adam needs someone to make sure he doesn't fall and hurt himself again, not a fan-turned-water aerobics instructor-turned-friend who's already 63.2397% in love with him.

It feels good to admit it to himself, even if it's just something he mumbles to the empty bunk above him.

The next morning Justin meets Adam on the bench after running into Bitty and Jack in the locker room. He hadn't realized they were still doing those checking practices but they were both smiling and Bitty hasn't goat-fainted since early in the season. Justin can see the progress in the way Bitty sings under his breath as he puts his pads away and the soft upwards curve of Jack's lips.

He takes a seat next to Adam, who's bent over as he tightens his laces. Justin pretends not to notice his shaking hands.

"Pretty good morning for ice aerobics, don't you think?" He asks, tone light as he sways gently to bump their shoulders together. Adam makes a little half-laugh, more of a quick burst of air than anything else.

"Good as any," Adam replies, finally sitting up. He rubs his hand over his knee, a nervous habit Justin's come to recognize. Justin pats his shoulder and stands, clearing the distance to the ice in one step. He glides a short distance and turns, then turns again, just getting accustomed to the feeling of ice beneath his blades. When he glances back at the bench Adam's watching him. He's smiling but he looks -- not quite sad and not quite hopeful. _Melancholic_ , Justin's standardized test vocabulary reservoir supplies.

"Hey, man. You'll be doing this in no time." Justin knows his phrasing is a little off, but it's worth it to see Adam's eyebrows rise in surprise before he smiles. The expression is still tight around the edges and fades altogether when Adam stands and makes his way to the ice, but Justin's proud he managed to relax Adam for at least a moment. He skates back over to the boards and offers Adam both his hands, his back facing the rink. Adam takes his hands in a too-tight grip and steps onto the ice, limbs stiff with tension. They glide back, both of them staring at Adam's feet, until Justin stops them.

"How's it feel?" Justin asks, absently running his thumbs along Adam's knuckles in an attempt to relax him; his grip on Justin's hands is painfully tight.

"Terrifying." Adam says automatically. He bends his knees experimentally, eyebrows knitted together in a look of intense concentration. "Knee's fine, though." He adds. He lets out a long, relieved sigh and finally tears his eyes away from his feet. The anchors of his lips rise in a tiny, hopeful smile and Justin's 63.237% rounds up to an even 65.000%.

It's a long, painstaking hour. It takes Adam a while to get out of his own head and Justin's on edge from start to finish, determined to keep him safe. There are a few close calls - Adam's momentum carries him further than he expects more than once and he ends up in Justin's arms - but halfway through the hour Adam finally begins to relax. Justin can see that it's not his body that's holding him back anymore, and he'll keep as close as he can until Adam's mind catches up.

They're practicing stopping and Justin's pressed up against Adam's back, hands firmly on his hips to make sure he's steady. Adam's leading but Justin's gently guiding him, helping his muscles remember what to do. They've been going back and forth, sending up small bursts of ice as they turn their skates to stop, when Adam turns suddenly, rotating in Justin's arms. They're pressed close together, chests touching, and Justin couldn't look away if he tried.

"Hour's up," Adam says, cheeks pink above his neatly trimmed beard. His eyes are startlingly blue on the ice.

"Yeah," Justin agrees, breathless. The immeasurable distance that always looms between them shrinks, disappearing with every breath.

Adam places a hand on his chest, mirroring exactly how they'd stood in the quad earlier that week. Instead of a fall wind and wet grass there's an artificial breeze and hard ice but the distance between them shrinks again. Adam's ducking his head, blue eyes level with Justin's brown. The corners of Adam's mouth twitch and then he's suddenly moving backwards, having pushed himself back with the hand on Justin's chest. The small smile become a full blown grin as he glides away and eventually turns to skate back to the bench without any assistance. Justin laughs, pride and joy bubbling up so fiercely it has to escape the confines of his ribcage in an uninhibited burst. The sound echoes around Faber, bouncing off the walls and ceiling until it fades, slipping beneath the hum of the rink.

65.000% jumps up to 66.000%, then 70.000%, then 74.000%, rising steadily with each beat of his heart. Later that evening, hours after they'd trudged off the ice, Justin can still feel the warm weight of Adam's hand over his heart.

 


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! It only took seven months, but a new chapter is coming on Sunday, March 25th! This is a small interlude with drabbles I've written for various prompts over the months.

**August 2009, Seattle, WA.**

Adam has been waiting for this moment his entire life.

He remembers the exact moment it began, back before his parents divorced. He remembers the Christmas tree - the one his father insisted on each year, carefully decorated with blue ornaments and white lights, his mother’s doing, no doubt - and the menorah gleaming on the mantle. Everything was bathed in light and while he doesn’t remember actually tearing into the wrapping paper but he remembers slipping on the gloves for the first time and picking up the stick with awkward, unskilled hands.

His hands are soft, now, but the rest of him cannot be. He doesn’t dare.

Every bag skate, every roadie, every single shitty locker room joke has led him to this point. Every hour in the weight room, each lap around the rink, every night spent in a billet house, every missed high holiday, every broken Shabbat, every indignity has brought him to this moment and he knows with every fiber of his being that it was absolutely worth it.

Adam takes a deep breath, and picks up the pen. He uncaps it, moving slowly so the Schooners managers and coaches don’t think he’s panicked, because somehow, impossibly, he isn’t. He doesn’t feel afraid. It was all worth it.

Adam presses the tip of the pen against the contract, and signs his name without hesitation. He dots the  _i_ and crosses the _t_ and then, finally, he becomes.

The ink on the page is who he is. He knows how much he is worth and what he has to do - what he  _will_  do - to prove that worth.

“Ready, Holtz?” Coach asks.

“Ready,” He says, and means it.

 

**August 2014, Samwell, MA.**

Adam has been waiting for this moment for the past two months. 

Two months isn't a long time, objectively. It's a blip in a life, just a small portion of the year. It's nothing.

But then again, Adam is nothing, too. 

Two months ago, he was someone. He was Holtz, #4, Norris Trophy winner and soon to be Stanley Cup Champion. He was a Schooner, a defenseman, part of not just a team, but an organization. He had people to defend, trophies to win, checks to land and goals to score. 

Yesterday's victory was taking a shower without falling because that's who he is now: a guy who falls in the shower, who uses a cane, who has to sit down and take breaks when he walks from his bedroom to the kitchen. He's attending a water aerobics class next week, for God's sake. He's twenty-three going on seventy and he's  _tired._

And somehow, inexplicably, that's the guy Samwell Men's Hockey wants as a coach. Adam can't make heads or tails of it but he signs the contract when it shows up at his new apartment. He dots the  _i_ and crosses the  _t_ and he doesn't feel any less exhausted but at least now there's a reason to get out of bed, and for a nothing, that's something. 

* * *

**November 2014, Samwell, MA.**

Ransom dreams of telling him.

It could happen so many ways. The kitchen in Holster’s apartment is comfortable but there’s something so poetic about doing it at the pool in the Rec center even with the smell of chlorine and chorus of elderly women in the background. Holster seems to like the weight room or the back corner of the library, but they’re rarely alone or able to talk in either location. 

He likes the thought of doing it in the morning but realistically it’ll happen late at night when he’s sitting under Holster’s kitchen table and Holster has lowered himself down to sprawl out on the cool tiles next to him. Or, it could happen in the afternoon, when Holster is done with classes and feeling relaxed.

 _Holster_ , he’ll say on some impossibly perfect day in some impossibly perfect place. They’ll be at the rink, working on Holster’s skating, or at Annie’s, or watching tape in the Haus, the living room lights turned off with just the light from the TV illuminating Holster’s strong features. Ransom can see it now, how the bright white light will make his eyes impossibly blue, how it will cast shadows over his beard and thick eyebrows. Sometimes he takes Holster’s hand; he can still feel the weight of it on his chest when he breathes deeply enough. He hopes Holster can still feel him, too. 

 _Holster_ , he’ll say.  _When I’m with you -_

 _Holster,_  he’ll say.  _Remember that one time we almost dated? Yeah, I think we should revisit that, posthaste._

 _Holster_ , he’ll say.  _We could be so good together._

 _Holster,_  he’ll say.  _I can’t keep kissing strangers and pretending that they’re you._

 _Adam,_  he’ll say.  _I love you._

He thinks about it too much. He knows it’s complicated, that what he feels is out of place and misdirected but he feels it nevertheless. He lets each new scenario, each new fantasy, wash over him because by now he knows there’s no use fighting it. 

There is, however, one thought he doesn’t allow. It’s too dangerous, too painful, too powerful to think into existence, much less say out loud. It’s frightening because Ransom knows it just might be true, but if it isn’t -

Ransom doesn’t want to think about it. He eats lunch with Holster and contemplates blurting it out over their sandwiches. He sits on the bus with him and briefly considers leaning over and whispering it in his ear while the rest of the team is asleep around them. Once, between shifts, he thinks about telling Holster right in the middle of the game. 

He dreams of telling him, but he does not dream that Holster might say it back.

 


	5. half of half, and half of that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, friends. The biggest thank you in the world to @pongpalace for betaing! Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Check out the tag for more content:  
> http://halfabreath.tumblr.com/tagged/water-aerobics-au

 

Things are different but somehow exactly the same.

Holster - and he's Holster by late October, so much so that even other students have begun to address him as such - has woven himself into the fabric of Samwell Men's Hockey. They leave a cubby open for him in the dressing room and a row of seats in the bus so he can stretch his leg out on long roadies. He’s been invited to kegsters even though he always refuses, because no matter how young he is or how close he is to the players that’s a line he can’t cross. He does other events with them, though: Haus brunch and post-game decompression chats and he’s even been called in as an impartial juror to a dressing room trial (Chowder was found guilty on all charges; there was nothing he could do).

On a dull monday in November, the team is gathered in a small lecture hall to watch tape. Holster's at the front of the room, starting and stopping the video as needed as they talk over what went right and what went wrong during their last game. Hall and Murray have placed video reviews under his jurisdiction and Holster loves it, even with the awkwardness of having the boys point out their own mistakes. It’s in those moments, when the team realizes exactly what went wrong and what they can do to fix it, that Holster truly feels like a coach. He’s helpful, he’s useful, he’s necessary again. When they reach the end of the game, Holster dismisses the team even though there’s technically still fifteen minutes left of practice; he has reading to finish before his next class, anyway. He flicks the lights back on and the team floods out.

Ollie casually catches Wicky's hand as they walk out the door, shoulders pressed together so they can both fit through the threshold. Holster watches them leave, unsurprised, but when he turns his attention back to the remaining members of the team Jack's gazing at the door, eyes narrowed. He has his game face on, the one he uses when he's analyzing the opponent's defense.

"When did that happen?" Holster asks the room. Only Jack, Bitty, Shitty, Lardo, and Ransom have stuck around. 

"The Halloween kegster!" Bitty pipes up. He's grinning, an excited flush high on his cheeks. "We still don't know what happened, but they showed up to the party holding hands and dressed in a couples costume, so we're all assuming - " 

Ransom laughs, wrapping an arm around Bitty's shoulders. "Bits, it's hardly an assumption when they made out in the middle of the dance floor for like, twelve songs in a row." He looks relaxed, leg propped up on the seat in front of him. 

Last night he'd been hunched over Holster's kitchen table for hours finishing his Public Health paper but now he's joyful as ever. Holster's jealous of his recovery time, how he can go from panicked to his normal outgoing self in just hours. When Holster gets low, he stays low for days, but Ransom bounces back so quickly. Granted, he'll go through the cycle a few times every month, around every deadline or test he's assigned. 

Holster gathers his notes and stuffs them into his bag. "What's up with you, man? Not big on PDA?" he asks Jack, unsure of why he looks like he's just sucked on a lemon.

Jack shakes his head once, firmly. "It's not that. Dating within a team can throw everything off. Everyone can go out of sync when it goes bad." 

"Eh, I don't know. When I dated a teammate it actually worked out pretty well, even after we broke up." Holster's focused on getting his notebook into his bag without displacing his haphazard system of organization. The room goes silent. When he looks up Bitty and Jack are staring at him with wide, shocked eyes, Ransom looks vaguely panicked, Shitty's mouth is hanging open in a wide smile, and Lardo's smiling up at him fondly. 

"What team was this?" Bitty asks, voice higher than usual. Holster's never seen the expression he's wearing before, the panicked-hopeful-worried jumble of emotions he's projecting. 

"The Black Hawks, in Juniors," Holster explains, looking between them all slowly. The words hang in the air and Holster knows dating a teammate is uncommon but Jack's face is devoid of color and Bitty's flushed bright red, two extreme reactions for the casual information he'd just dropped. Was there some rule in juniors he hadn't known about? Was dating a teammate actually a horrible faux pas? He and Stephen hadn't - 

Holster freezes, his hands tightening around the thick material of his backpack. The pieces slowly fall into place and he slowly sets the backpack down, shoulders relaxing as he grins. "You guys totally thought I was straight, didn't you?” he asks, and the tension that’s gathered in the room immediately settles. Bitty still seems bewildered, and Jack’s silent, but the next thing Holster knows Shitty is wrestling him into a hug. 

“Heterosexuals? In  _ my _ National Hockey League? It’s less likely than you think!” Shitty says, cackling. Holster laughs with him, letting Shitty hang on as long as he wants. When he does eventually pull back, he doesn’t go far. Shitty settles his hands on Adam’s shoulders and looks up at him with a serious expression, made all the more severe by his mustache. 

“Thanks for trusting us with this, Coach Holster,” Shitty says, mustache twitching in a small smile when he uses Adam’s title along with his nickname. It’s Shitty’s favorite way of addressing him, a strange mix of formal and familiar that encapsulates their relationship perfectly. 

Holster nods, then glances around the room. They’ve all gathered around him in a loose clump. “Thanks, you guys. Now I  _ know _ some of you have class in a few minutes, and I’m not going to let you skip.” 

Shitty groans but finally lets go to gather up his things. Lardo gives his arm a comforting squeezes as she passes by him. Ransom’s behind her; he bumps their shoulders together fondly. He has his phone already out and Holster knows he’ll have about thirteen texts waiting for him. Shitty hugs him again, mumbling something about facial hair solidarity before running out. Jack’s brow is furrowed and his lips are turned down in a frown, but he gives Holster a nod before he walks out the door. 

That leaves Bitty, who’s digging through his bag with an almost frantic energy. A small ball of guilt gathers in Holster’s chest. He knows his personality isn’t particularly subtle, but he probably should have approached the matter a little more delicately. He walks around the table, careful to give Bitty space so he doesn’t think he’s being checked. 

"You doing okay, Bitty? I didn't mean to make your brain explode," Holster says. Bitty’s hands slow their search but he doesn’t look up, still focused on his bag. 

"Yean, no, sure, I'm just. That’s not something I ever expected to hear because you know exactly how, well, not just the NHL but all jocks in general, you know how they are because you are one, I mean, I don’t think you’re one of the homophobic assholes who - I know you’re not! Obviously, you’re not, and I’m not and the team isn’t but you have to admit that Samwell is a total anomaly with the - the - you know, one in four thing but most places aren’t Samwell and I just. I didn't think - how did you - the whole time?" Bitty’s voice gets more and more frantic as words pour out of him. Holster’s seen him curled up in a ball on the ice, drunk, indignant over over temperatures, worried about the amount of butter in the Haus, and incandescently happy when the team inhales one of his pies but Holster’s never seen him like this. He’s babbling, clearly saying exactly what he’s thinking, and at this rate Holster’s worried his head might explode, and he definitely can’t have that. 

"Yeah, I've been bi pretty much my whole life," Holster jokes, trying to ease the tension. Bitty laughs, just once, in a burst of punched out air. “Hey,” Holster says gently. “Let’s sit down and talk about it. I’m sorry I blindsided you.” He eases himself down in in a chair and waits for Bitty to sit next to him. “Ask me anything you want.” Holster waits, watching the wheels turn in Bitty’s mind. 

“Holster?” Bitty’s voice is soft, tenuous. Tension radiates through his small frame, from his tight shoulders to his trembling fists that are curled around the strap of his messenger bag. Holster knows those hands hold a surprising strength; he’s been pulled into the Haus more times than he can count by them, they taught him how to knead dough and he’s watched them trace plays into flour dusted on countertops more times than he can count. “Have you ever fallen for a straight guy?” Bitty asks, voice so quiet Holster almost can’t hear him. 

_ “Hey, bro. Need a spotter?” _

“No, but I’ve fallen for the wrong guy,” Holster says. The words leave a bad taste in his mouth; there’s nothing about Ransom that’s  _ wrong.  _ Bitty’s wide-eyed gaze settles on him and Holster offers him a small, wry smile. “Well,” he amends. “Maybe the right guy at the wrong time.” That feels better to say, if not to realize. Holster clears his throat; his gaze settles back on Bitty’s hands. They’ve relaxed their grip on his messenger bag, and as Holster watches one of Bitty’s hands drifts over to settle on the back of Holster’s hand. His palm is warm, but everything about Bitty is warm, and Holster flips his hand over to curl his fingers around Bitty’s smaller palm. 

“C’mon,” Holster says, giving Bitty’s hand a firm squeeze before letting go. “Annie’s run, on me. You can even get an extra shot and all the gross syrups you like.” Bitty laughs wetly and stands, Holster settles arn arm around his shoulder as they walk out of the lecture hall.

* * *

_ Vodka, $45.50, check. Keg, $110.00, check. Natty Lite $50.97, check. Franzia $35.37, assigned to Wicky, check. Red solo cups, $13.96, assigned to Nursey, check. Ping pong balls $10.45, assigned to Chowder, check. Clorox wipes $11.98, assigned to Dex, check. Ice, $6.00, assigned to Bitty, check. Playlist, assigned to Ransom, ???. _

Ransom scans his spreadsheet with a critical eye, searching for any gaps in his list of kegster supplies. He’s elevated party preparation to an art with his constant rotation of reusable items and graphs on exactly which weekends in which months yield the most guests. Tonight’s party, by all accounts, is going to be a fucking _ riot _ . It’s the last party before exams, perfectly placed on a Friday to ensure recovery time before the first test on Monday. It’s also the only party happening on campus, which means walk-ins, which means cover charges, which means more Natty Lite than most people have ever seen in their entire life. 

Ransom happens to know exactly how much Natty Lite that is. Well, Excel does. But if Excel knows it, Ransom knows it, and that’s the only reason he’s survived his delicate balance of identities: frat bro, Division I athlete, honor roll student and of course, water aerobics instructor. Months ago Ransom never would have expected that teaching a class for senior citizens two days a week would become as important to him as kegsters or hockey, but it has, and not just because of the only participant who’s over five feet and seven inches tall and under 60 years old. Planning the class is simple, a welcome break from worrying about assignments and his GPA. It’s just the same exercises over and over in different combinations with different music: predictable, easy, and just interesting enough to keep his attention. It’s perfect. 

Seeing Holster with water dripping down his beard onto his bare chest, his soaking wet, slightly too short, probably-from-the-80’s-seriously-who-in-their-right-mind-choose-that-pattern-in-those-colors swim shorts clinging to his thick thighs? That’s kind of perfect, too.  

A deep, booming laugh echoes around the pool, bouncing off the tiles and water until it hits Ransom right in the stomach, seeping in through his skin to ricochet around his ribcage. He glances over his spreadsheet one last time just to make sure everything is as it should be - he just has the party playlist to complete - and finally tucks his phone into his pocket. When he looks up Holster is still laughing, stomach muscles contracting as Beth continues with whatever ridiculous story she must be telling. Even Linda, who’s positioned herself between them, is laughing, although Ransom catches her glancing over at Holster’s pecs more than once. He checks the clock; there’s still time before class begins. He walks over, saying hello to the various other members of the class as he makes his way to the other side of the pool, and by the time he reaches their little cluster the butterflies in his stomach have settled. 

Then Holster looks up, their eyes meet, and for a second Ransom is convinced he’s in some sort of soap opera, Jane Austen, romance novel  _ bullshit _ because Adam absolutely lights up when he sees him and Ransom knows he’s grinning like an idiot right back at him. 

And look - Ransom doesn’t mind soap opera, Jane Austen, romance novel bullshit most of the time. Sure, romantic comedies aren’t his favorite genre and he’s never be swept up in a romance on a TV show, but he doesn’t hate the concept on principle. It’s just that he doesn’t have time for this particular brand of soap opera, Jane Austen, romance novel bullshit because even if he and Holster could date - which they can’t, Holster’s made that abundantly clear - but even if they could, Ransom’s not sure if there are enough hours in the day for him to be a boyfriend as well as a hockey playing, test acing, water aerobics teaching, frat bro. 

If Ransom is going to date Holster, he’s going to do it right. Now isn’t the time. The butterflies don’t seem to get the memo, but Ransom knows, logically, that now is not the time for this - for  _ them _ . 

“Dude, you have to listen to this story, it’s absolutely wild.” Holster barely manages to stop laughing long enough to greet him with a fist bump. Ransom firmly pounds their knuckles together and settles into the circle. He shifts, tempted to slide between Holster and Linda, but she’s stuck to Holster’s slide like glue and there’s no way for him to make his way in without disrupting the entire circle. He looks up at Holster, giving him an apologetic little shrug, and Holster tilts his head as if to say  _ Thanks for trying. _

Beth’s grinning as she twists her thick gray hair into a long braid, thin fingers moving deftly. “I can’t give away too much, because you two are technically students, but let’s say, hypothetically, if you were to check out the paleontology section on the fourth floor of the library, you might find a hypothetical nook, where a certain librarian may have found a hypothetical contraband cache.” Beth twists a hair tie around the end of her braid with a flourish, eyes sparkling. Ransom can see why Holster likes hanging out with her so much. He has no doubt she’d fit right in at a kegster; something tells him she and Lardo would be an unstoppable force with their powers combined. 

It’s kind of a terrifying thought, actually. 

“And what was in the cache?” Holster asks, leaning forward in anticipation. His balance has gotten much better, Ransom’s proud to say. He’ll have to update  _ Adam’s Recovery and Road to Eventual Happiness Masterplan  _ to include the new data. 

Beth’s gaze flickers towards Tabitha, who’s standing a few feet away as she talks to Diane. Her back is turned to their little circle; it’s clear she isn’t listening. Beth’s smile dims for just a fraction of a second before she brightens up again. Ransom looks at Holster, who gives him a little crooked grin and raises his eyebrows just so, in a way that somehow, inexplicably, tells Ransom everything he needs to know. 

“ _ Hypothetically, _ ” Beth says, intrigue dripping from every syllable. “A certain librarian may have found thirteen condoms, five dental dams, a packet of weed gummies, and two poorly rolled joints. On a completely unrelated note, I happen to have thirteen condoms if anyone needs some. Linda, do you know anyone who will use them?” Beth tosses her braid over her shoulder and settles her gaze at Linda, one perfect eyebrow raised in a clear challenge. 

Linda levels a cool look right back in return. “Are you sure you don’t need them? Keep them for the next few days; you might run out by then,” she says, lips twisting into a haughty smirk. Between them, Holster’s beaming. He’s drinking up the drama like it’s one of those stupid reality TV shows he likes so much. 

“Well, would you look at that.” Ransom clears his throat, taking a half step back when both Beth and Linda’s narrowed gazes settle on him. “It’s time for class! In the water, all of you.” Holster’s still grinning - he’s absolutely  _ useless _ \- but he herds everyone into the water nevertheless so Ransom can begin class. 

An hour later, with frog kicks and supines completed, Ransom meets Holster by the pool steps like he usually does. Holster doesn’t need help walking across the slick tiles anymore, which means Ransom doesn’t have an excuse to wrap an arm around him, which means Holster won’t wrap a strong hand around his shoulders for support, and Ransom misses that hand and that waist but Holster looks so proud of himself as he takes confident steps across the wet tile. That small, sure smile looks so good on him. 

Holster stops suddenly, hand flying out to wrap around Ransom’s forearm. Ransoms stops suddenly, flinging out his other arm to make sure Holster doesn’t topple forward, but he doesn’t actually have anything to catch. Holster’s standing still, staring straight ahead, but when Ransom follows his gaze he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Most of the women have cleared out by now, just Beth and Tabitha remain. They’re standing just outside the locker room, talking quietly. 

“Oh my god,” Holster whispers, eyes wide as he stares across the pool at the two women. “It’s happening. Ransom, it’s  _ happening _ .” His grip on Ransom’s arm is distractingly tight. 

“What is?” Ransom whispers back, trying to figure out what’s so special about Beth and Tabitha having a conversation. Beth’s speaking, gesturing as wildly as she always does, and in the middle of her sentence Tabitha reaches out and straightens the twisted strap of Beth’s swimsuit. Beth turns bright red as Tabitha’s fingertips trace along her bare shoulder to tug gently on her thick braid and suddenly, Ransom sees  _ exactly  _ what’s going on. 

“Oh my god, Holster,” Ransom says, in awe, as Tabitha wheels Beth with more finesse and class than Ransom’s ever seen. Granted, his flirting experience is related mostly to classrooms and kegsters, but Tabitha is pulling out all the stops and Beth, confident, expressive, Beth, is done for. 

“I know.” Ransom can hear the smile in Holster’s voice, but he looks up at him anyway, just to see it for himself. “Damn, Tabitha’s got moves. I literally never would have expected someone named Tabitha to have  _ moves. _ ” Holster finally releases Ransom’s arm as Tabitha saunters towards the locker room, shoulders straight and head held high. Beth exhales, her entire body relaxing, and catches Holster’s eye and gives him a quick thumbs up before heading into the locker room herself. 

They take a step forward; moving in unison with Holster feels natural in a way Ransom will never be able to explain. 

“That was incredible,” Ransom says, holding open the locker room door for Holster to walk through. Holster gives him a fancy little salute, like he’s tipping a top hat, and Ransom isn’t sure if it’s dorkier that he actually did it or that Ransom finds it absolutely charming.

Weeks ago they came to the unspoken agreement to choose back to back lockers so they change in different aisles of the locker room. Ransom kills time at his locker until he knows Holster is safely behind a shower curtain; Holster waits for Ransom to be in his own shower until he exits and changes. Sometimes it seems like their relationship is a delicate balance of lines that cannot be crossed. 

Ransom’s just pulled his shirt over his head when Holster appears beside his locker, fully dressed with his backpack slung over his shoulder. “We have to celebrate,” Holster declares, reaching into Ransom’s locker to pluck his white snapback off the hook and hand it to him. Ransom takes it seamlessly; when he places it on his head Holster reaches out and straightens the collar of his coat. That, apparently, is a line that can be crossed. 

“There is a kegster tonight, you know,” Ransom reminds him as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Plenty of opportunities for celebration.” Holster’s lips turn down into a small frown and suddenly, Ransom’s found a hard line. 

“You know I can’t,” Holster says, voice soft amongst the dripping water and clanging lockers. “But we can hang out before. I’ll drive if you need to make a beer run,” he offers. He holds the door open this time; Ransom’s too busy mentally scrolling through his spreadsheet to salute him.

_ Vodka, $45.50, check. Keg, $110.00, check. Natty Lite $50.97, check. Franzia $35.37, assigned to Wicky, check. Red solo cups, $13.96, assigned to Nursey, check. Ping pong balls $10.45, assigned to Chowder, check. Clorox wipes $11.98, assigned to Dex, check. Ice, $6.00, assigned to Bitty, check. Playlist, assigned to Ransom, ???. _

“Actually,” Ransom says, returning to his body as they’re walking across the quad. Holster’s still walking beside him, steps perfectly in sync. “The only thing left to do is the playlist. We could get some food and figure that out?” Ransom suggests. Holster grins, already nodding, but Ransom cuts him off before he can speak. “One condition: no Journey. ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ is  _ not _ the party jam you think it is.”

Holster stops short, hands held up before him, looking as affronted as Ransom has ever seen him. “Ex- _ squeeze _ me?” 

Two burritos later they’re  _ still _ talking about it because this is apparently the hill Holster has chosen to die on. He’s speaking emphatically as they walk up the Haus steps, hands flying through the air. 

“And I know what you’re gonna say.” Holster’s halfway up the steps when he turns dramatically, almost smacking Ransom in the face with his gesticulations. “You think that the only reason I’m even talking about Journey is because of Glee, and to that I can only say: how  _ dare _ you?” Holster turns, takes three more steps to the landing, and then paces up and down the short hallway, hands thrown in the air. Ransom turns the corner to the second staircase, content to leave him behind, but Holster just follows him. “And sure, Glee was a cultural juggernaut, at least in the first two and a half seasons - and I do mean two and  _ a half _ , don’t come for me on this - but you’re doing a disservice to not only me but to our entire generation by implying that Ryan fucking Murphy is the only reason I know about the small town boy and girl!” 

“Oh my god,” Ransom mumbles, scrubbing his hands over his face before collapsing onto his bed. His forehead lands on the corner of his pillow, his blankets bunched up awkwardly beneath him. “Look, we’ll throw a retro kegster in the spring and you can go crazy with the white dad rock then. Hell, I’ll even let Dex contribute. But that’s not the vibe for this, the most epic of kegsters. I’ve been planning this party for weeks and this playlist is the last fucking thing I have to do,” he says into the mattress. Ransom hears the desk chair wheels squeak as they slide over the hardwoods, and then a gentle pair of hands guide his arms through his backpack straps. 

“I got this, Rans,” Holster assures him, lifting his heavy backpack to the floor before digging through it to extract Ransom’s laptop. He places it on Ransom’s back, using him like a desk, and the warm weight of it is surprisingly comfortable. Ransom closes his eyes and lets him work. If he drifts off for a little bit, well. That’s kind of a celebration in and of itself. 

Ransom wakes up to the back of Holster’s head. He blinks once, twice, stretches, and when he finally pushes himself up he sees that Holster is seated on the ground, laptop balanced on his knees, with his back resting against the bed. 

“You up?” Holster asks softly, hands still moving steadily on the keyboard as he types a few words into the Spotify search bar. He finds the song he’s looking for and drags it into the playlist before repeating the process. 

Ransom hums in affirmation and rolls off the bed, leaning against Holster’s shoulder as he studies the playlist Holster has made. There’s no Journey in sight, a little heavy on the Nicki Minaj, but then again, he did ask  _ Holster _ to make it, so he set himself up for that one. 

“It’s looking good,” Ransom says as Holster scrolls through the songs slowly enough for him to read. “We have to add some more Drake, but it’s great.” Holster laughs; Ransom’s world bounces when the shoulder he’s resting his head on shakes. 

It’s so easy like this. They’re not Coach Birkholtz or Oluransi here, not an ex-NHL star or honor roll student. They are, but they’re not. When Ransom reaches over to drag yet another Drake song into the playlist Holster sighs dramatically but doesn’t stop him; Ransom can feel his ribs expanding and contracting. The distance that looms between them has all but disappeared and Ransom knows that if he says Holster’s name he’ll look over and Ransom can tilt his head just so and maybe Holster will lean forward and kiss him and the temptation’s too much, Ransom opens his mouth, about to say Holster’s name, when a wayward song catches his eye. 

“Wait,” Ransom says, taking the laptop from Holster’s lap to re-read the list. “ _ Wait. _ Did you - are you kidding me - Holster! What is  _ Whitney Houston _ doing on my playlist?” He demands, holding the laptop away from Holster’s grabbing hands. 

“What is she doing? She’s blessing you with her presence!” Holster swipes for the laptop, Ransom jerks it away just in time. “Come on, you know people will love it. Whitney is always the right choice.” Holster reasons, and he sounds so sincere that Ransom’s almost convinced. Almost. 

“Okay, but why did you choose ‘How Will I Know?’ Why not ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody?’” Ransom asks, rolling away when Holster reaches out for the laptop again. 

Holster rolls his eyes. “‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody? While people are dancing? It’s a little on the nose. Besides, ‘How Will I Know’ is.” He cuts himself off, rearranging his legs with care. “I don’t know, it’s relevant. Topical, if you will.” 

“Topical,” Ransom echoes. Holster flushes, gaze travelling along the floorboards. “Fine. This is your one retro song,” he concedes, because how can he say no to those flushed cheeks and that downturned gaze?

Besides, Ransom  _ has _ been wondering how he’ll know. Something stirs in his stomach when he realizes that Holster must be wondering, too. 

Holster’s gaze flickers up to meet his, so sweet and so raw and Ransom knows he’s sitting on the floor of his room but he feels like he’s in another world, one where he can tell Holster he doesn’t have to wonder anymore because he loves him, he loves him, he loves him. 

(Ransom’s dreamed of telling him.)

Holster smiles, and the next thing Ransom knows he’s standing, laptop tucked under his arm. “I’m just, um. I’m going to get everything set up downstairs. Thanks for helping me,” Ransom says, already halfway down the steps by the time Holster replies. Ransom thunders down to the second floor, makes it halfway down the final flight of steps, and stops in his tracks. 

There are people in the Haus. The entire team is there, still in various stages of setting up the party, but there are  _ people in the Haus. _ They’re holding beer, clustered around the pong table and spread out over the couch, leaning against the kitchen counters with shot glasses in hand. 

Epikegster already started, and Ransom had no idea. 

Ransom moves quickly. He makes his way through the crowd and connects his laptop to the speakers. Music fills the Haus with a few taps of his fingers and then he sprints back up the steps, just barely managing to intercept Holster on the second floor. 

“You can’t go!” he exclaims, taking Holster by the shoulders to spin him around. “The party already started, if you go downstairs people will see you, and they’re all sober so they’ll remember seeing you!” Ransom explains as he pushes Holster up the attic steps. “You’ve told me a million times that you can’t attend parties, and if you go down there they’ll think you’re  _ attending the party. _ ” 

Holster stands in the middle of the attic and blinks at him. “I’m trapped here?” he asks, incredulous.

“Pretty much. You have to wait until it’s crowded enough and everyone’s so drunk that they won’t remember seeing you.” Ransom’s mind is already spinning, weighing variables and inputting data. “It’ll be another three hours at least. Shitty’s not even done with the tub juice yet.” Holster sits on the bed, looking bewildered. 

“Okay,” he sighs, and slips his backpack off his shoulder. “I guess I’ll just watch  _ 30 Rock _ and wait it out,” he muses, glancing around the four walls of the attic, resigned to his fate. 

“I’m sorry,” Ransom says with a wince. “I can hang out with you, if you want?” he offers, but Holster’s shaking his head before he finishes the sentence. 

“No way, it’s your Epikegster! One of us should enjoy our playlist. Just come and get me when the coast is clear and I’ll get out of your hair.” Holster already has his laptop out, anyway, and Ransom knows there’s no use arguing with him. 

“If you’re sure,” he says, dragging out the words, but Holster just nods firmly and pops in his ear buds. Ransom heads downstairs, carefully closing the attic door behind him, and sets up the customary second floor barrier. 

The kegster is, indeed, epic.

Ransom makes a few trips upstairs, first to grab his shutter shades and then to deliver Holster a few beers, but for the most part he stays downstairs, content to fucking obliterate anyone who dares challenge him and Lardo at the pong table. Even Jack is there, although he’s hugging the wall, Bitty at his elbow, but he looks relaxed and happy. 

The playlist is a hit, Lardo’s on a hot streak, Shitty’s tub juice is a thing of beauty, and just when Ransom doesn’t think the night can get any better, Kent Parson shows up out of the blue. He manages to get a selfie with him before Lardo drags him to the pong table for a one on one battle, and Ransom makes the rounds one more time before deciding that now, with Parson as the ultimate distraction, it’s finally time for Holster to slip out. Ransom sprints up the steps, shoulder banging the wall when he dips to the side (that tub juice is  _ strong _ ) but he make it up to the attic in one piece. 

“Dude,” he says, bursting into the room with his shades askew. “You’ll never fucking believe who’s here.” Holster sits up and closes his laptop, about to offer a guess, but Ransom barrels on. “Kent Parson. Kent! Parson!” he yells, double fist pumping in his excitement. “Epikegster is officially, indubitably, one hundred thousand percent epic!” 

“‘Swawesome!” Holster holds out a hand for a high five, Ransom smacks it once, twice, and then fist bumps it for good measure as Holster laughs. “Did you just come up here to brag, or is it time?” 

“It is time,” Ransom says solemnly, ducking his head in a graceful nod. He tips forward, just a little bit, and luckily Holster pushes his shoulder to send him back in the right direction. The motion sends Holster leaning to the side as well; Ransom spots a cluster of empty beer cans neatly stacked on the floor. Ransom grabs his coat, intending to walk Holster home, as Holster packs up and then they’re on their way. 

They make it all of twelve steps before they’re stopped. Luckily, ten of those twelve were the stairs leading down to the second floor. Once there, though, a now-familiar figure in a plaid shirt appears at the top of the steps.

"Birkholtz?" Kent Parson asks, narrowed gaze smoothing out into a friendly smile. He sticks out his hand and Holster slaps and grabs it, pulling him in for a quick hug. 

"Parser!” Holster says, matching his smile with a grin of his own. “What the hell are you doing here, man?” he asks, thumping Parson’s back solidly. 

Kent thumps him right back. "I came to see Jack.  _ This _ is the college team you're coaching?" He readjusts his snapback when Holster releases him, sweeping his blonde hair back with sure movements before setting it back on his head. Ransom hangs back, content to watch Holster - or should he say Holtz - in action. 

"Yeah, it's great," Holster says, glancing back at Ransom fondly. Kent tracks the movement, the corner of his mouth jerking up in a quick little half-smile. 

"Hey, good for you,” Kent says warmly, reaching out to land a soft punch on Holster’s shoulder. “Tough break with the knee. We miss seeing you out there." 

Holster laughs, a loud, bright burst of sound. "No, you don't." 

"No, I don't,” Kent admits with a laugh of his own. “It's way easier to score without you riding my ass. Missed you this summer, though," he offers. When he crosses his arms his Rolex watch glistens on his wrist, picking up the lights from the party below. 

Holster leans back to loop Ransom back into the conversation. "We train during of offseason at the same gym in New York,” he explains, wrapping an arm around Ransom’s shoulders to officially introduce him. “Parser, this is - "

"Ransom, d-man, pre-med, right? We took a selfie downstairs. Still loving those shutter shades," Kent cuts in with a genuine smile, holding a hand out for Ransom to shake. It’s strange, formally meeting someone from Holster’s old life, and it’s even stranger to remember that his heroes are people Holster has met and worked with. Hell, Holster used to be his hero. 

"Thanks. If you're looking for Jack he's probably in his room,” Ransom offers, trying to be helpful. He’s the only one here who actually lives here, after all. “Down the hall, last door on the right."

Kent throws him an easy smile; having his full attention is mesmerizing. He claps Ransom on the shoulder and starts walking down the hallway, turning to point at Holster. "Thanks! Birkholtz, don't be a stranger. Hit me up if you come to Vegas." He throws the last few words over his shoulder, sauntering towards Jack’s room. 

"Will do,” Holster calls out. He laughs when Ransom double fist pumps again. 

"I can't believe he remembered my major," Ransom says, in awe as he leans back against the wall. 

"He's a classy guy,” Holster agrees, leaning to the side to catch a glimpse of the people downstairs. “You know there’s fanfiction about him and Jack, right?” he says suddenly, face lighting up in a mischievous grin. 

“Oh my god, I wasn’t gonna bring it up, but there is and I feel like we have to guard our knowledge of this interaction with our lives,” Ransom says. It had all been fun and games before he actually knew Jack but now that Jack is his teammate, his captain, and his friend, he feels protective of him. 

“We absolutely do,” Holster agrees with a serious nod. The weight of the agreement hangs in the air for a moment, and then Holster pulls his hood up and squares his shoulders. “Ready to get out of here?” he asks. Ransom nods and follows him down the steps into the fray. 

Bitty brushes past them as they weave through the partygoers, but he's so focused on his phone that he doesn't stop to greet them. It's a relief, actually. The last thing Holster needs is members of the team knowing he's here - they'll want him to stay and it's bad enough that he's at the party at all, even though he's technically just walking through it as he tries to escape. 

Holster keeps his head down, shoulders curled in as he tries and fails to make himself smaller as he weaves through the crowd. Finally, they’re out the door, and then there’s just the tub juice crowd to contend with before they’re in the clear. 

“You know,” Holster says, finally straightening up once they’re out of the crowd that’s clustered in the front lawn of the Haus. He tugs his hood down and looks over at Ransom with a sly smile. “There’s fanfiction about me, too.” 

Ransom might know a thing or two about that but he feigns surprise. “No way,” he says, wrapping a steady hand around Holster’s elbow to guide him around a patch of ice. Holster follows easily, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket. 

“Way. There’s one that’s fucking  _ incredible _ , someone like inserted me into episodes of Golden Girls under the premise that Dorothy is my grandmother and it’s truly the pinnacle of humanity’s literary achievement,” Holster says, words coming faster and faster as he gets more and more excited. 

They have to shift to a single file line to avoid some of the larger clumps of packed-down snow that's turned to ice. The soft light of Holster's phone casts a bluish glow over his shoulders and hair, and when he turns around to show Ransom the fanfic he's found it illuminates his smiling face. Ransom's so distracted by the play of light over his blonde hair that he doesn't register the look of panic that crosses Holster's face when he jerks suddenly, feet skidding on a slippery patch of ice. Ransom surges forward and just barely manages to catch Holster before he falls.

Everything goes still. 

Holster's fingers are digging into his chest, his grip almost painful. Ransom's clinging to the fabric of Holster's coat, arms wrapped tightly around him. Their noses are almost touching and Holster's warm breath fans over his face in a small cloud of condensation. Holster's eyes are wide open, staring up at him in shock, like he can't believe he's not on the cold ground, like the thought of someone catching him hadn't occurred to him, like a part of him had thought Ransom would let him fall.

It's the surprise that does Ransom in. He aches as he tilts his head, eyes locked with Holster's as he moves closer. Holster's still beneath him, wide-eyed, and years condense into seconds as Ransom moves close enough to press their cold lips together. Holster shivers, the movement wracking his entire body, and then he's kissing Ransom back desperately. His fingers dig into Ransom's chest as he gets his feet under him and draws himself up to his full height but Ransom just tightens his grip around Holster's waist, drawing him as close as possible. Holster's hands sweep up his chest to cup his face and his palms are somehow warm while his nose and lips are cold. His beard is rough against Ransom's cheeks but it just makes him deepen the kiss, searching for more of the overwhelming sensation of  _ this feels right, this is right, he is right for me. _

Holster breaks the kiss, pulling back to take a shaky breath. He's conflicted, emotions flitting across his face faster than Ransom can decipher them. He waits, hands steady on Adam's back. Adam gazes down at him and strokes his thumbs over Ransom's cheeks, leaving flashes of warmth that are quickly overcome by the Massachusetts winter. Ransom closes his eyes, savoring the feeling in case this is the last time, and when he opens them Adam looks  _ devastated _ , the expression smoothing over after a half second. His face changes so rapidly Ransom thinks he imagined it and then Adam ducks his head and kisses him again, desperation building until they're both breathless and flushed, hands scrambling over their winter coats. 

"Rans," Holster says, voice low and grainy. Ransom surges forward, kissing him again. Adam's fingers have grown cold against his face but he doesn't care, content to stand outside until morning if he gets to kiss Adam again and again. "Ransom," Holster says again, once they've parted. 

"Yeah?" he asks, gaze jumping from Adam's red lips to his eyes and back down again. 

"Go back to the party. Go be a college student. Go have fun." Adam brushes his knuckles over Ransom's cheek. He's so cold he can only feel the gentle pressure, but he leans into the touch anyway. "Then come to my apartment tomorrow and we'll talk."

"Why can't I come now?" Ransom asks, pressing closer so their chests are pressed together. He swears he can feel Holster’s every breath through their layers and layers of outerwear.

Holster studies his face; he must like what he sees because he smiles warmly. "Are you sober?" he asks, and Ransom’s shoulders slump when he hears the question. He leans forward with a low groan, pressing his face against Holster’s chest. He can feel Holster laughing beneath his cheek. 

"No," Ransom admits in a heaved sigh. Holster wraps his arms around him, holding him tight for a perfect moment, before letting him go all too soon. 

"Neither am I. Come to my apartment when you're sober and we'll, you know. Figure stuff out. We’re gonna do this, and we’re gonna do it right," Holster says it so casually, like they’re going to meet to figure out a homework assignment or determine a play for their next game, not talk about the fact that the earth just shifted on its axis and tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that and all the days after that are suddenly different because he knows for a fact that Holster will be in them.

"Okay," Ransom sighs, and lets his hands fall from Holster’s chest. Holster takes a step back and begins walking away, and Ransom can only bear to watch him take a half step before he speaks. "Holster?" 

The taller man hums, turning back towards him. Ransom catches him off guard, sealing their lips together just as he turns, and he can't really feel Holster's smile because he's smiling, too, and it's not a technically good kiss but it's also the best kiss Ransom's ever had. 

"See you sober," he mumbles against Holster's lips, and it's a strange sensation to feel Holster's laughter through his teeth but he doesn't want to pull away just yet.

"See you sober," Holster echoes. He settles his hands on Ransom's shoulders and gently turns him around, giving him a little push back towards the Haus. Ransom takes three steps and then looks back, pulling a face when he sees that Holster's still just standing there, grinning. Holster gives him a little wave and finally turns away, walking slowly as he avoids the clumps of snow and ice. 

Ransom watches him for a long moment, heart thundering in his chest, and then goes back to the party. 

* * *

_ Justin's straddling his hips, hands braced on either side of Adam's head as they kiss. He's in constant movement, shifting his weight and rucking up Adam's shirt and ducking down to kiss his neck until Adam makes small, choked-off sounds in the back of his throat, little half moans and bitten off whimpers. When Justin pulls back his pupils are blown wide but he's smiling, the soft light from the lamp on Adam's side table casting shadows over his features. Slowly, deliberately, he slips a hand under Adam's shirt, lightly dragging his blunt nails down his chest. Adam arches under his hand and pulls him back down, kissing those smiling lips until Ransom is panting above him -- _

"Birkholtz!" The shout echoes through the dressing room, jolting Adam out of the memory. It's probably for the best; he and Ransom are alone in the dressing room and if he keeps thinking about the past few days he’ll probably end up kissing him, and yeah, Adam has a soft spot for dressing rooms (his first kiss was in a dingy, disgusting locker room  after all, and he’s been in a thousand different dressing rooms and each one kind of felt like home) but he’s not really looking forward to kissing Ransom with Nursey’s loogie spot lurking a few inches away and twenty-odd jockstraps in attendance. 

Then again, he’d be kissing  _ Ransom _ and as he discovered over the weekend, kissing Ransom is the best, and would most definitely counter the effects of the hellscape of bodily fluids they’re in.

Adam looks up from the textbook he's staring at as he weighs the pros and cons of kissing Ransom in a familiar, if nasty, space just as Murray storms in the dressing room. Hall is following close behind him. "Hey, what's - " Adam begins, but he’s cut off before he can continue. 

"Office, now." Murray cuts Adam off and turns on his heel, storming off towards his office. Adam watches him leave, trying to make sense of the strange interaction. He's heard Murray annoyed after a loss, caught up in the heat of a game, frustrated when the team wastes time, but he's never seen him this angry before. 

Justin shoots him a worried look as he walks past, and he knows they're thinking the same thing -- 

_ Adam digs through the piles of unpacked possessions he's just made, chasing the muffled sound of his ringtone as he searches for his phone. He can hear the electronic melody wafting up from somewhere under his carefully folded jerseys, and he knocks them to the side haphazardly in his search. When he finally unearths it he catches the flash of three familiar emojis in the caller ID and answers the phone with a smile.  _

_ "Ransom?" he asks, a little breathless from the search.  _

_ "Holster," Ransom sounds relieved, and although it's only been three hours since Adam watched him walk back to the Haus his heart swells at the sound of his voice. "I'm fucking freezing and I tried knocking but it sounded, like, so loud and I didn't want to wake up your neighborhood because it's like four in the morning so I thought I'd call you and I hope I didn't wake you up. I didn't wake you up, right?" He's speaking quickly, rambling like he does just before he shuts down in and goes into study mode, but there's something buoyant in his voice, a warmth and happiness that's absent when he's anxious. He's excited, Holster realizes.  _

_ "Wait, knocking? Are you here?" he asks, trying to make sense of what Ransom had said. "Here as in, my apartment?" _

_ Ransom's quiet for a long moment. "Yeah. Shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have - It's just that I'm sober and I said see you sober and I wanted to see you and - I'll go." He's anxious now, the happiness evaporated. Holster can't have that.  _

_ "No!" he says, scrambling to his feet. "Stay, please, stay where you are." Holster runs through his apartment, bare feet thudding over the squeaking floorboards, and when he flings the front door open Ransom is standing there, wide-eyed, with a shy smile pulling up the anchors of his lips.  _

_ Suddenly, Holster doesn't know what to do. The cold air sweeps into his apartment but neither of them move, both frozen with their phones still pressed to their ears. He can see Ransom's chest move as a staticky exhale bursts through the speakers and all he can do is remember to keep breathing himself. He's not sure how long they stand there, if it's seconds or minutes or moments or breaths or years but then Ransom slowly lowers his phone and ends the call. He breaks eye contact to glance down to make sure his thumb hits the right button but when his eyes flicker up to meet Holster's --  _

_ The dam breaks.  _

_ Holster reaches out and grabs a handful of Ransom's coat the same moment Ransom steps across the threshold. They crash into each other, swaying as the floorboards creak with their combined weight, and kiss without hesitation. Holster tosses his phone in the vague direction of the couch as Ransom kicks the door behind him and once it closes with a soft thunk Holster pushes them back until Ransom's back is pressed against the solid wood. Ransom's hands are in his hair as Holster clings to the thick material of his jacket, their lips slotted together perfectly. Ransom's skin is cool beneath his hands but Holster surges forward, determined to keep him warm.  _

_ When they break apart Ransom lets out a shaky breath as Holster presses their foreheads together. "Stay," Holster says again, a whispered plea. Ransom's cold fingers trace over the back of his head to skim along his jaw until he's cupping Holster's face in his hands. He pulls Holster down again, kissing him softly, and that's all the answer Holster needs.  _

Adam lowers himself into the chair across from Murray's desk, feeling all of two feet tall. He doesn't like where this is going, not one bit, but he knows he has to stay calm. There's no possible way for Hall and Murray to know about the kiss or Ransom coming to his apartment or how everything in Adam's life has changed.  

"Adam," Murray begins, looking over at Adam from across his desk. His anger is bleeding away into exhaustion, growing thin around the edges. "This is unacceptable. What you've done - How could you think that was a good idea?" Hall is hunched over the desk beside him, hands flying over the keyboard of Murray's laptop. 

"In my defense," Adam begins. "I don't know what you're talking about." It's not a strong defense but it's all he has, and it’s an effective rage litmus test as well. Neither Hall nor Murray crack a smile; they look towards the laptop instead. Hall hits one final key and spins the laptop around, silence falling over the room as Adam takes in the picture on the screen. 

_ They've migrated to the couch. Holster's ankle is still throbbing from where he'd bumped into the coffee table when Ransom had attempted to steer him across the living room but he doesn't mind. Ransom's been pressing apology kisses to his lips and cheeks and Holster waits until he slows down before dragging him down. He kisses Ransom once, deeply, before wrestling him around so he's tucked between Holster's body and couch cushions.  _

_ "What?" Ransom asks after Holster's gone still. His head is cushioned on Holster's bicep, but neither of them has leaned back in for another kiss.  _

_ Holster shrugs the shoulder he's not laying on, thick eyebrows drawing together. "I'm trying to think of a good chirp," he admits, only a little sheepish.  _

_ "Are you fucking serious?" Ransom asks, pretending to be annoyed. His smile gives him away in an instant. He settles his hand on Holster's hip, tugging him closer so he can tangle their legs together. He's careful to steer clear of Holster's bad knee but he doesn't fuss over it; his palm skates over what's left of Holster's kneecap but sweeps back up to rest on his hip, his fingertips sneaking beneath the hem of Holster's shirt.  _

_ "Yeah, I'm honestly trying to come up with something, but I can't. I'm chirpless," Holster admits, a little amazed. He's a grump who uses chirping to vent frustration in a socially acceptable way and now he can't even think of one little thing to say? Who is he? What's happening to him? _

_ Ransom beams up at him, and Holster's suddenly at peace with becoming someone who gets to make Ransom smile so brightly.  _

_ "I'm honored," Ransom replies, and tips his head forward to slot their lips together again. His hand tightens on Holster's hip just as Holster cups his cheek, stroking his thumb along the sharp line of Ransom's cheekbone. The apartment is quiet but for the sound of their breathing and the soft slide of their lips but when Ransom's moan cuts through the silence Holster has to pull away before it becomes anything more. Ransom opens his eyes, confused by the sudden space between them. _

_ "Rans, we should talk about - " Holster begins, trying to roll away. Ransom tugs on his hip impatiently to keep him from going too far.  _

_ "No," Ransom says, and continues before Holster can argue.  "Not yet, not for at least 24 hours." He tries to duck in for another kiss but Holster turns away so his lips land on Holster's cheek, just above his beard. Ransom kisses him anyway, again and again, nosing his way down to Holster's neck.  _

_ "Justin, we can't just ignore it," Holster says, even as he tilts his head to give Ransom better access to his neck. The conversation halts as Ransom's teeth come into play.  _

_ "Yes, I can, until tomorrow night," he says, spitting the words out between nips and kisses. _

_ Ransom's biting down now, sucking steadily and Holster doesn't have the strength to push him away. "You have study group tomorrow night," he pants, eyes slipping shut.  _

_ Ransom finally pulls back, inspecting the mark he's made on Holster's neck. "Monday night, then," he says easily, pushing himself up so he's no longer wedged between Holster's body and the back of the couch. He pushes down on Holster's shoulder to ease him onto his back.  _

_ "Monday morning," Holster bargains, but goes willingly wherever Ransom moves him. There's a pause as he moves over into the space Ransom just vacated, wiggling over beneath the circle of Ransom's arms so his back is firmly on the couch.  _

_ "Monday afternoon?" Ransom suggests once he's settled. Holster sighs, knowing he's not going to get a better deal.  _

_ Holster nods. "Fine, Monday afternoon," he concedes. Ransom grins and swings his leg over Holster's waist, then ducks down to kiss him.  _

It's a fairly innocuous tweet, as far as tweets go. Adam doesn't recognize the handle or the woman in the profile picture, but the image doesn't answer any of Adam's questions. It's a selfie of the woman from the profile picture with Kent Parson and someone else, a tall man in a striped t-shirt whose face is half out of the frame. All that's visible is his bushy blonde beard and closed-lipped smile. The caption reads: "The whole fuckin NHL is in the Haus?? Best kegster ever!! @kentvparse @samwellmenshockey @aholtz4 #zimmermannwashere #nhlparty #epikegster" 

Adam stares at the screen for a long, long moment, trying to make sense of what happened. He's not sure why he was tagged in the picture - he doesn't even use Twitter anymore - but when his gaze traces over the three figures again his stomach drops. 

"That's not me," he says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears.

"Look, Adam. I have to take responsibility for part of this," Murray says, scrubbing his hands over his eyes. "I told you to get close to the players, but I thought you'd use some common fucking sense." Suddenly the anger's back. "You're a coach, Adam! You can't party with the players - it's completely unprofessional! It's one thing to be their friend but this? This is a PR nightmare for Samwell!" Murray is yelling now, cheeks red as his hands fly wildly. Hall stands behind him, arms crossed, tension etched in every muscle. 

Adam's hands are clenched around the armrests in a white-knuckled grip as he waits for Murray to take a breath. Every emotion from the past few days - the hope and fear and joy and now sickening dread - swirl together in the pit of his stomach. He feels nauseous and the only thing keeping him from bolting to the bathroom is the anger that's beginning to swell around the mess of emotions, rushing in and overtaking them by the second. 

"That's not me!" he repeats, speaking loudly enough to cut through Murray's impassioned tirade. "I didn't attend that party, I didn't drink with the players, and I definitely didn't take a picture with her and Kent Parson!" he says, hoping the truth of the statements bleeds through. He spent most of the night trying to escape the party, only entering it to cut through the crowd for his escape. He drank, yes, but just a few beers by himself as he waited for Ransom to reappear. He doesn't have to sidestep the truth for the last statement: he truly has no idea who the man in that picture is but the only identifiable features - the height, the beard, and even the striped shirt - all align with his. 

He's fucked.

Murray opens his mouth again but Adam cuts him off. "Ask the team," he pleads. "Ask any of them if I was there - fuck, ask any of them if I was at that party. I don't know who this guy is but I swear to God it's not me." He swallows, hand closing into a fist around the arm chair. "I understand what my job here is, and I understand why that would be unprofessional. I don't know who he is. She must have been confused." Murray looks back at Hall, who's staring at Adam intently. Adam takes a deep breath and lets it go, knowing precisely what he has to do next. "Ask the team. C'mon, Hall, Murray, you know me."

The words fall from his mouth and the nausea returns, because really, they don't know him at all. The lie closes around his throat and heaves in his stomach, forcing him to swallow back bile. He hadn't been at the party, but he'd done something much, much worse, and he can’t even bring himself to regret it. He'd do it again in an instant because he hadn't kissed some random student - it's Justin, it's always been Justin, it always will be Justin -  Adam sags back against the chair when he realizes what he has to do. 

He absently hears Hall and Murray dismiss him and he stands slowly, managing to make it out of the room and down the hall before he topples to the side. His shoulder catches the wall and he slides down until his ass is on the cool tile. Guilt and fear trap him there even when his knee begins to ache from the uncomfortable position. 

If Hall and Murray exploded at the thought of him attending a party, he can't imagine what they would do to him if they found out the truth. They're right - it's a scandal in the making. A coach dating a player? At this level? He can see the headlines now, feel the judgement radiating at him from every direction, see any future opportunities melting away. Justin might be an adult, but there's still an impossible social divide between them. Adam had crossed it because he - 

He lets his head fall back, thunking against the painted concrete block behind him. He lets out a long breath, focuses on the pain, and lets himself finish his thought. 

He'd crossed the line because he's in love, and that detail doesn't make it any less unacceptable. He's just lucky they didn't get caught. Being at the center of scandal is the last thing Justin needs. This could ruin the rest of his college playing career and so, so much more. If the press gets wind of this it'll be the first thing that appears when anyone looks Justin up, dwarfing his publications and future accomplishments. Adam can't let that happen. He might be in love but Justin probably isn't yet, and the sooner he breaks things off the better. 

_ "Hey, what's the deal with all - ?" Ransom's mouth is full of foam as he points his borrowed toothbrush towards the collection of tooth-care products Holster's amassed over the years. He bends down and spits into the sink, rinsing out his mouth quickly.  _

_ Holster curls a hand around his hip and gently pushes him to the side so he can rinse his mouth out after he cleans off his toothbrush. "These teeth survived one of the most violent sports on earth. I'm not going to lose them to plaque now," he explains, giving Ransom’s hip a quick squeeze before his hand slips off.  _

_ "Those are all real? But you got hit in the mouth with a puck!" Ransom remembers watching the game, how worried he’d been when his favorite player went down and stood back up with blood running down his chin. It was badass but terrifying and Ransom hasn’t taken the shield on his own helmet for granted ever since.  _

_ Holster shrugs as he twists off the cap of the mouthwash. "Didn't lose a single one. The Schooners dentist said I've got the strongest enamel he's ever seen," he says before taking a swig and sloshing the liquid around his mouth.  _

_ "What a dumb super power," Ransom chirps as Holster spits the mouthwash into the sink. It’s strange - he feels just as close to Holster here as he did on the couch, when he’d pressed Holster into the cushions and kissed him in all the places he’s fantasized about. This is decidedly less sexy, but it’s somehow more intimate.  _

_ "Excuse you, my teeth are distinctive. They're the first thing people notice about me." Holster takes a step back so Ransom can have his turn with the mouthwash. He doesn’t swish it around as long as he should; he has a point to make.  _

_ "Not true," Ransom says after he spits out the mouthwash. He turns around, leaning back against the sink. _

_ "Oh yeah?" Holster places his hands on the counter, trapping Ransom in the circle of his arms. He has to lean down so they're eye to eye. "What did you first notice?" he asks, half flirtation and half genuine interest. Ransom settles his palms on Adam’s chest, the warmth of his hands seeping through his thin t-shirt.  _

_ "Linda, crawling all over you," Ransom says, matching Holster's sultry tone. Holster lingers in Ransom's space for a drawn-out moment before he breaks with an undignified snort of laughter. He stands back up, throwing his head back in laughter. Ransom follows, resting his forehead against Holster’s sternum. Holster’s hands settle back on his waist, drawing him close, and yeah, somehow standing in the middle of Holster’s bathroom while they both laugh feels closer than grinding down on him and feeling Holster’s beard scratch along his face and neck.  _

Adam's not sure how long he sits in the hallway, but by the time he stands his knee is stiff. Pain shoots up his thigh when he stands and slowly walks back towards the dressing room with uneven, halting steps. The more he moves the better it feels but even after a few laps up and down the hallway he's still limping, even though the ache has lessened. When he walks into the dressing room Justin is sitting in his cubby, dressed in day clothes and worrying his bottom lip. Adam lingers in the doorway, clinging to the frame until Justin looks up at him. Silence fills the room, oppressive and encompassing, filling up every available centimeter of space in the nearly-empty room. 

"Why did Hall and Murray just ask me if you partied with us at Epikegster?" Justin asks hoarsely. His fingers are nervously picking at a loose thread on the outer seam of his pants, worrying the fabric in tight, tenuous movements. Holster sighs and walks over to him,  waving him off when his limp makes Justin stand in a burst of anxious energy. He eases himself down into the cubby beside him, and Justin immediately reaches out. His broad, warm palms skim over the tense muscles in Holster's thigh, examining him gently. Justin's face is twisted in a frown, which only deepens when Adam removes his hands. 

"What did you say?" Adam asks, wincing when he stretches out his leg. Justin's hands return to the loose thread, picking at it steadily. 

"The truth. You weren't at the party. In the Haus, yeah, but I left that part out. Hall and Murray looked relieved." Ransom reaches out for him again, hands pausing mid-air as his worried gaze roams over Holster, shifting from his face down to his leg and back again. He makes a decision and takes Holster’s hand in both of his. 

"They should be. This whole thing could have been a nightmare for the program." Holster can’t bring himself to pull his hand away. He scrubs his free hand over his eyes, trying and failing to relax. 

"Why?" Ransom asks, and Holster usually forgets about their age difference but now the other man sounds so, so young. 

Holster shakes his head. "A coach getting drunk with the players at what was essentially a frat party? That makes the whole hockey program here look like a joke. It's beyond unprofessional. They almost fired me." He sighs, looking down at their joined hands because he can’t stand to look at Ransom’s face when he barrels on. "Justin - " he begins, but he’s cut off before he can get any further. 

"No," Ransom says, voice firm. 

That, at least, forces Holster to look him in the face. "You don't know what I'm going to say." 

Ransom rolls his eyes, expelling the breath from his lungs in a sharp huff. "Yes I do. You're going to say we should break up because if partying with players almost gets you fired, dating one definitely will. Am I wrong?" he demands, perfect brows furrowing together as his eyes narrow. 

"A little," Holster says with a wince. 

"How?" Ransom asks, voice surprisingly soft. The word hangs between them, dangling awkwardly, and Holster aches with the knowledge of what he has to do. 

Holster takes a deep breath. "We'd actually have to be together to break up. We're not dating," he says, forcing himself to hold Ransom’s gaze even though the weight of it might crush him.

Ransom drops his hand. 

"Of course we - _ how could _ \- was it not like that, for you?" Ransom asks, voice breaking.  _ Of course it was. _ Holster wants to scream. How could it not be? It was everything,  _ Ransom _ is everything, but Ransom will never walk away if he knows the truth.  _ I need this and you need me and we both need us. _ Holster takes a deep breath, and twists the knife. 

"We never talked about it - we were going to talk tonight, remember?" The words burn his mouth as he speaks, drops of acid that spill from his bleeding lips.  "Look, Rans, we just need to forget it happened. We can go back to how it was before." Holster’s lying through his teeth but for a brief moment the pain eases as he’s swept up in it. Maybe it’s not a lie after all, maybe they’re just meant to be friends, maybe they were confused. Maybe it hadn’t felt as right as he remembers. "It'll be easy! We've been friends before and we can do it again, this doesn't have to change anything!" 

"Sure, Adam. Whatever you want." Ransom spits out his name, shoulders square with indignation and pain as he glares up at Holster. 

"I don't - " Holster begins, suddenly desperate to fix what he just intentionally shattered. Maybe it’s not a lie, maybe they were wrong, maybe things will be fine. 

(Maybe one day he’ll believe that.).

"I think you should go. I'm not ready to be your friend." Ransom’s voice is calm, absolutely level. It’s devoid of any emotion at all, and that’s worse than hearing anger or sadness. Something deep in Holster’s chest snaps; he gasps from the pain but swallows it down. He did what he needed to do, for both of them, and now he’ll deal with the consequences. 

(Maybe one day that will be enough.)

"I'm sorry, Ransom,” Holster says quietly, the words dampened by the huge room around them. The entire space feels bigger now that he and Ransom are a million miles apart, oceans and continents and galaxies between them. 

"Whatever,  _ Coach _ ." Ransom’s looking down at the floor, voice flat and lifeless. 

Adam winces, the title hitting him like a slap across the face. Justin's beside him, just inches between them, but suddenly Adam feels like he's stranded an ocean away. He ducks his head, staring down at his feet for a long moment before pushing himself up. 

Adam walks away, steps halting and slow, knee aching with every step. He walks through Faber's empty halls until he reaches the door to the loading dock, but he doesn't stop. He walks across campus, keeping his head down until he reaches his apartment, but he doesn't stop. He walks through the front door, past the kitchen, past the couch, past every place Justin has been, but he doesn't stop. Adam walks through his recently unpacked possessions until he reaches the piano that's tucked in the back corner and all but collapses on the bench. He buries his face in his hands, letting himself wallow for just a few heaving, broken, breaths before dropping one hand to the smooth keys. Adam sniffs, then presses down. A minor chord echoes around the room; Adam wipes his eyes and the other hand falls, tapping out a familiar melody. He plays bits and pieces of songs he'd memorized as a kid, through the pieces he'd taught himself at his billet house in Juniors, dabbles in the songs his Schooners teammates always made him play in hotel lobbies after wins. He plays everything he can think of, everything that will take his mind off what he's done, and he doesn't stop. 

(Maybe one day he will.)

  
  



End file.
